y^«ss 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


This  series  of  Scandinavian  Classics  is  published  by 
the  American-Scandinavian  Foundation  in  the  belief 
that  greater  familiarity  with  the  chief  literary  monu- 
ments of  the  North  will  help  Americans  to  a  better 
understanding  of  Scandinavians,  and  thus  serve  to 
stimulate  their  sympathetic  cooperation  to  good  ends 


SCANDINAVIAN  CLASSICS 
VOLUAIE  XX 

PER  HALLSTROM: 
SELECTED  SHORT  STORIES 


THIS   VOLUME    IS    ENDOWED    BY 

MR.  CHARLES    S,  PETERSON 

OF    CHICAGO 


PER   HALLSTROM: 

SELECTED  SHORT  STORIES 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  SWEDISH  BY 

F.  J.  FIELDEN 

Formerly  Scholar  of  Gonville  and  Caius  College,  Cambridge; 
English  Lector  in  the  University  of  Lund 


NEW  YORK 

THE  AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN  FOUNDATION 

LONDON:    HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

1922 


Copyright,  IQ22,  by  The  American-Scandinavian  Foundation 


C.  S.  Peterson,  The  Regan  Press,  Chicago,  U.  S.  A. 


TT  ^ 


TO 

D.  K.  F. 


>•  rz 


39349 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 

ix 

Symposium 

3 

Amor 

15 

Carneola 

39 

A  Humble  Tragedy 

55 

Melchior 

79 

A  Secret  Idyll 

III 

Don  Juan's  Rubies 

155 

Hidden  Fires 

191 

The  Water-Finder 

235 

The  Gardener's  Wife 

277 

List  of  Per  Hallstrom's 

Principal  Writings 

294 

INTRODUCTION 

IN  THE  history  of  Swedish  literature  the  last 
decade  of  the  nineteenth  century  will  always 
claim  an  important  place.  Not  only  did  the  period 
see  the  rise  and  development  of  no  less  than  six  or 
seven  great  writers,  but  it  was  also  an  epoch  of 
change.  The  writers  of  the  time  are  not  bound 
together  by  any  common  cause,  but  it  can  now  be 
seen  that  their  work  marked  a  common  reaction 
against  the  positlvist  and  realistic  traditions  of  the 
preceding  decade.  The  eighties  were  years  of  dis- 
satisfaction, of  scepticism,  revolt,  and  emancipa- 
tion; their  representative  in  Sweden  Is  Strindberg. 
The  influence  of  Ibsen  and  of  the  French  natural- 
ists is  strongly  stamped  upon  them.  Women  writ- 
ers then  first  begin  to  take  an  important  place  in 
literature;  description,  keen  observation,  and  an- 
alysis are  in  vogue;  philosophy  has  a  strongly  posi- 
tlvist bias;  literature  is  centred  In  the  capital.  The 
great  writers  of  the  nineties — von  Heldenstam, 
Froding,  Selma  Lagerlof,  Oscar  Levertin,  Per 
Hallstrom,  Pelle  Molin — open  an  age  of  imagina- 
tion and  symbolism.  A  tendency  to  separate  litera- 
ture from  the  political  and  social  questions  of  the 
hour  is  accompanied  by  a  return  to  tradition, 
patriotism,  and  the  past;  there  Is  a  renewal  of 
enthusiasm  and  poetic  glow.  Realism  is  no  longer 

ix 


X  INTRODUCTION 

conceived  of  as  gray  and  featureless,  but  as  full 
of  interesting  facts  to  note,  moods  to  capture,  indi- 
vidual fates  to  follow.  The  important  influences 
are  Renan  and  Nietzsche,  the  former  regarded  as 
the  cultured,  sceptical,  aristocratic  humanist,  the 
latter  as  the  rediscoverer  of  the  heroic  in  art  and 
life.  The  leadership  in  literature  passes  out  from 
Stockholm  to  the  provinces.^ 

It  is  in  part  because  he  seems  to  share  in  both 
these  two  opposing  currents  of  thought  that  Per 
Hallstrom  holds  a  somewhat  isolated  and  special 
place  among  Swedish  writers.  His  first  prose  book, 
Vilsna  fdglar  {Strayed  Birds) ^  consists  of  short 
impressionistic  sketches  from  life,  in  which  the 
gift  of  psychological  intuition,  the  satirical  humor, 
and  the  power  of  sympathy  with  the  outcasts  of 
society,  all  so  characteristic  of  this  author,  are 
already  abundantly  manifest.  In  several  other 
respects  he  has  affinities  with  the  writers  of  the 
eighties,  in  particular  in  his  insistence  upon  moral 
values,  his  detestation  of  injustice,  lies,  and 
shams,  his  restless,  doubting,  critical  temperament. 
But  his  later  work,  while  preserving  some  of  these 
tendencies,  is  no  less  definitely  romantic.  The  sto- 
ries in  Piirpur  {Purple)  show  a  characteristic  love 
of  color  and  a  desire  to  escape  into  the  ampler  air 
of  the  imagination  which  are  paralleled  in  Lever- 


^  Cp.   F.  Book,  Sveriges  moderna  litteratur,  Stockholm  1921, 
chaps.  V  and  XI,  passim. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

tin's  Legender  och  visor,  Heidenstam's  Hans 
Alienus,  and  in  Gosta  Berlings  saga.^  An  ever- 
strengthening  mystical  tendency  runs  through  the 
plays  and  stories  of  a  later  period,  in  which  the 
transforming,  dignifying,  and  ennobling  power 
of  death  comes  to  be  a  leading  motif;  while  al- 
most everything  he  writes — short  stories,  plays, 
novels,  poems,  and  at  times  even  the  essays — is 
touched  by  an  all-pervading  lyricism. 

But  there  are  further  characteristics  which  con- 
tribute to  set  Hallstrom  apart  from  other  Swedish 
writers.  The  genius  of  Swedish  literature  has 
hitherto  been  mainly  lyrical;  Hallstrom's  deep  in- 
terest in  the  workings  of  the  human  mind,  his  subtle 
psychology — sometimes  so  subtle  as  to  Incur  the 
charge  of  being  too  exclusively  intellectual — is 
perhaps  his  most  noteworthy  and  original  con- 
tribution to  the  literature  of  his  country.  Again, 
hardly  any  Swedish  writer  can  rival  him  In  width 
of  range  and  power  of  adaptability.  He  roams 
at  will  through  all  lands  and  ages.  The  Palestine 
of  Old  Testament  days,  the  Greece  of  the  mytho- 
logical period,  medieval  Europe,  Italy  at  varying 
stages  of  her  civilization  and  history,  the  France 
of  the  Revolution,  modern  America,  Stockholm 
and  the  solitudes  of  his  native  Sweden — any  and 
every  scene  can  be  made  to  serve  as  a  background 
to  the  story,  and  rarely  Indeed  can  any  false  note 

^Ibid.,  p.  278. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

be  detected.  This  unusual  color  and  variety  have 
perhaps  mitigated  against  Hallstrom's  popularity 
in  his  own  country,  but  should  serve  to  make  him 
more  easily  appreciated  abroad.  His  lack  of  for- 
mal academic  training  and  his  early  contact  with 
life  have  also  helped  to  differentiate  him  from 
the  majority  of  his  fellow-writers. 

The  outside  facts  of  Hallstrom's  life  are  soon 
told.  Born  in  Stockholm  on  September  29,  i866, 
he  studied  engineering  at  the  Technical  College  of 
that  city  and  in  1888  went  out  to  America  as 
chemist  at  a  factory  in  Chicago.  Returning  in  1 890, 
he  held  a  government  post  for  a  time  and  then 
went  to  live  in  Florence.  From  1 904  to  1 905  he  was 
dramatic  critic  to  the  Stockholm  paper  Dagens 
Nyheter,  and  since  1906  he  has  settled  down  at 
Saltsjo-Storangen,  near  Stockholm,  devoting  him- 
self to  writing.  He  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
Swedish  Academy  in  1908,  and  is  one  of  the  com- 
mittee which  awards  the  Nobel  prize  for  litera- 
ture, and  notwithstanding  his  retiring  disposition 
and  dislike  of  publicity,  honors  of  various  kinds 
have  not  been  withheld  from  him. 

On  the  subject  of  his  early  life  and  first  publi- 
cations Hallstrom  is  his  own  best  interpreter.  In 
a  paper  contributed  to  a  collection  published  by 
the  Swedish  Authors'  Society,^  for  which  various 
prominent  authors  were  asked  to  write  upon  the 

1  Ndr  <vi  borjade.    Stockholm,  1902. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

subject  of  "My  First  Book,"  he  tells  of  his  lonely 
and  melancholy  boyhood,  his  early  passion  for  Eng- 
lish poetry  and  later  discovery  of  Carlyle  and 
Goethe,  the  vivid  and  not  altogether  happy  im- 
pressions made  upon  him  by  his  life  in  America, 
the  beginning  of  the  short  tales  afterwards  col- 
lected in  Vilsna  fdglar  and  Ptirpur,  and  the  pub- 
lication and  failure  of  his  first  book,  a  volume  of 
poems  entitled  Lyrik  och  fantasier  (1891).  A 
detached  critical  outlook  upon  life  and  a  certain 
pessimism  are  strongly  marked  features  of  this 
early  period,  and  though  softened  and  completed 
by  other  qualities  in  later  years,  they  have  never 
entirely  disappeared.  In  the  matter  of  form  the 
choice  of  the  short  sketch  proved  to  be  significant. 
Among  the  poems  written  at  this  period  were  sev- 
eral in  narrative  style,  and  Hallstrom,  to  quote 
his  own  words,  had  already  begun  "to  feel  his  way 
towards  that  domain  which  was  to  become  his 
own — the  short  story."  In  later  years,  as  a  glance 
at  the  bibliographical  note  which  follows  these 
pages  will  show,  he  was  to  develop  an  extraordi- 
nary productiveness  in  several  branches  of  the 
literary  art.  His  lyrics  contain  many  fine  things, 
he  has  achieved  success  in  the  drama,  and  he  has 
latterly  shown  himself  to  be  a  critic  of  no  mean 
ability.  But  competent  judges  agree  in  hailing  him 
as  the  master  of  the  short  story  in  Sweden.  These 
tales  with  their  varying  moods  of  lyrical  beauty, 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

deep  pathos,  keen  wit,  and  sharp-sighted  observa- 
tion and  intuition,  their  richness  of  imagination, 
and  their  typically  Swedish  feeling  for  nature,  are 
masterpieces  in  an  admittedly  difficult  art,  and 
upon  them  all  the  author's  care  and  feeling  have 
been  lavished. 

Scattered  up  and  down  Hallstrom's  essays  can 
be  found  remarks  which  illustrate  the  lines  upon 
which  his  stories  are  laid  down.  In  a  paper  on 
Rabindranath  Tagore,^  speaking  of  the  Glimpses 
of  Bengal,  he  writes:  "As  was  in  general  the 
case  with  the  short  story  during  the  literary 
period  to  which  the  book  belongs  (the  period  of 
Hallstrom's  own  Vilsna  fdglar)  they  are  rather 
sketches  than  tales  with  which  we  have  here  to  do. 
The  theme  of  the  genuine  short  story  is  almost  a 
concentrated  drama,  and  if  the  treatment  is  fully 
in  accord  there  will  be  at  one  and  the  same  time 
vigorous  conciseness  and  harmoniously  rounded 
outlines.  In  its  miniature  form  the  short  story 
has  scope  for  greatness  in  the  details  and  a  single 
yet  wide  perspective — like  the  Florentine  medal- 
lion of  pre-Renaissance  times.  The  more  it  tends 
to  become  an  episode  or  a  separate  fragment  of 
a  novel,  a  description  of  types  or  milieu,  the  more 
remote  is  it  from  the  sculptural  and  the  nearer 
it  approaches  to  painting  or  drawing."  Again,  in 
an  essay  on  Cervantes's  Novelas  Ejemplares,  in- 

'  The  last  essay  in  Leiande  dikt. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

spired  by  the  ter-centenary  of  1916,^  he  points  out 
that  the  development  of  Intrigue  and  Incident  in 
the  Italian  novella  was  not  accompanied  by  any 
deepening  of  psychological  Insight  or  widening  of 
philosophical  basis,  and  that  Cervantes's  origi- 
nality lay  just  here.  "He  could  give  life  and  mean- 
ing even  to  that  which  was  dry  and  barren,  and 
fill  out  the  enlarged  form  of  the  short  story  as  a 
pioneer  for  later  ages."  It  Is  possible  that  Hall- 
strom  himself  owes  something  to  Cervantes,  and 
he  has  certainly  learned  from  Shakespeare,  of  the 
organic  nature  of  whose  imagination  and  methods 
of  dramatic  composition  he  writes  thus  in  another 
essay:  "Here,  as  in  the  world  of  reality,  the  uni- 
verse re-echoes  in  the  individual  fate,  hangs  upon  it 
by  a  thousand  slender  threads.  The  drama  is  not 
isolated  upon  a  stage,  it  moves  past  like  a  stream, 
where  wind  and  waves  have  come  from  far  and 
have  farther  yet  to  go."^ 

These  passages,  and  In  particular  the  one  just 
quoted,  will  suffice  to  suggest  what  are  the  main 
features  of  Hallstrom's  best  and  most  character- 
istic work  In  the  domain  of  the  short  story.  He 
sees  farther  and  Implies  more  than  Maupassant, 
with  whom  he  has  been  compared^  and  upon  whose 
"natural  limitation  of  thought,  vision,  and  feel- 


'  Published  in  Konst  och  Viv,  second  essay, 
'  Konst  och  liv,  third  essay. 

'By  Ola  Hansson  in  the  Nordisk  Revy  for  1895.   The  article 
refers  only  to  Vilsna  fdglar. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

Ing"  he  shrewdly  comments  In  the  above-mentioned 
paper  on  Tagore.  While  Hallstrom  has  not  the 
Frenchman's  marvelous  clearness  of  outline  and 
is  far  from  possessing,  or  even  aiming  at,  his  direct 
and  concise  style,  he  is  ever  on  the  watch  for  those 
subtle  connections  which  bind  up  the  individual 
human  life  with  the  universal  and  the  infinite,  and 
it  is  this  feature  of  his  work  that  lends  to  it  much 
of  its  originality  and  power.  He  is  chiefly  con- 
cerned with  mental  states,  emotional  crises,  and 
moral  ideas,  the  incidents  that  give  rise  to  these 
assuming  quite  a  secondary  place.  His  favorite 
method  is  to  use  all  the  material  at  his  disposal — 
lyrical  setting,  characters,  and  plot — in  working 
up  to  one  supreme  moment  when  the  individual 
life  or  lives  become  transformed  and  lost  In  the 
glory  or  sombre  majesty  of  some  universal  human 
experience.  The  method  is  exemplified  in  A  Hum- 
ble Tragedy  and  The  Gardener's  Wife,  still 
better  in  Hidden  Fires  and  The  Water-Finder. 
And  of  all  such  experiences  the  hour  of  death  is 
the  greatest  and  most  universal.  The  thought  of 
Death  as  the  deliverer,  the  reconciler,  the  great 
compensator  for  the  wrongs  and  injustice  of  life, 
runs  through  all  Hailstorm's  work,  and  he  has  com- 
posed a  whole  collection  of  stories,  Thanatos,  upon 
this  very  motif.  Yet  It  is  no  mere  Intellectual  con- 
viction with  him,  but  a  deep  truth  Intuitively 
perceived  and  devoutly  cherished.  The  greatness 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

of  death  lends  to  every  life  a  greatness,  so  that 
even  so  commonplace  an  individual  as  Janson, 
the  central  character  in  A  Humble  Tragedy,  is 
caught  up  in  the  presence  of  death  and  trans- 
formed, at  least  for  the  time  being,  into  "some- 
thing rich  and  strange."  Next  to  Death  comes 
Love,  but  it  is  noteworthy  here  that  with  Hall- 
strom  the  ruling  principle  of  love  is  not  passion 
but  self-abnegation  (cp.  Hidden  Fires) ^  and  this, 
like  death,  means  also  liberation  from  the  self. 
Hallstrom's  sympathy  with  the  "strayed  birds"  of 
the  community — derived  in  part  from  Tolstoi  and 
Dostoievski — is  also  largely  based  upon  the  idea 
of  a  common  mortality.  In  his  compassion,  his 
sense  of  life  as  one  and  of  individual  human  exist- 
ence as  an  illusion,  and  his  belief  in  a  chain  of 
causes  (see  especially  Carneola) ^  Hallstrom,  as 
Book  has  pointed  out,  is  obviously  influenced  by 
Schopenhauer,  though  he  is  without  the  German 
philosopher's  contempt  of  reality  or  hatred  of 
men.  The  charge  of  pessimism  has  often  been 
brought  against  him,  yet  he  is  no  mere  pessimist. 
Rather  is  it,  as  Georg  Brandes  has  well  said,  that 
Hallstrom  "seems  inclined  to  conceive  of  that 
heightening  of  life's  emotions  which  we  call  hap- 
piness as  thriving  better  in  hope  or  in  remembrance 
than  in  the  daily  reality."^    No  writer  has  seen 


1  G.  Brandes,  Samlede  Skrifter    (Copenhagen,   1906),  XVII, 
p.  199. 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

more  clearly  that  the  life  which  has  not  known  its 
share  of  suffering,  self-devotion,  and  self-discipline 
can  never  reach  the  topmost  heights  to  which 
human  nature  may  attain. 

In  the  selecting  of  the  stories  here  translated, 
prominence  has  been  given  to  tales  with  a  Swedish 
setting.  Three  in  particular,  Melchior,  Hidden 
Fires,  and  The  Water-Finder,  will,  it  is  hoped, 
even  in  translation,  convey  some  idea  of  the  won- 
derful imaginative  power  of  Hallstrom's  descrip- 
tions of  nature.  The  scenery  and  natural  setting 
of  the  story  are  no  mere  ornaments  which,  though 
constituting  an  added  beauty,  are  still  not  abso- 
lutely indispensable:  they  are  just  as  integral  a 
part  of  the  story  as  any  of  the  characters  or  inci- 
dents, while  the  descriptions  themselves  are  often 
so  vivid  as  to  produce  an  almost  physical  effect. 
Symposium,  Amor,  and  Don  Juan's  Rubies  will 
serve  to  illustrate,  among  other  things,  the 
author's  gift  of  humor.  In  his  earlier  stories  this 
often  takes  a  satirical  turn,  but  in  the  later  collec- 
tions there  is  also  to  be  found  humor  of  a  more 
genial  order.  Carneola  exhibits  the  combined  rich- 
ness and  restraint  of  Hallstrom's  imagination, 
while  The  Gardener's  Wife  is  a  beautiful  illustra- 
tion of  how  pathos  may  be  kept  within  artistic 
limits,  and  never  allowed  to  degenerate  into  sen- 
timentality. A  Secret  Idyll  reflects  with  remarkable 
fidelity  the  pathos  of  the  French  Revolution. 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

In  form  and  style  this  writer  has  a  manner  all 
his  own.  While  the  story  has  harmony  and  propor- 
tion and  is  usually  built  up  around  some  single 
moral  idea,  Hallstrom  permits  himself  as  many 
ramifications  and  side-issues  as  he  pleases  before 
the  structure  is  completed.  "No  style  can  bear  less 
resemblance  to  the  straight  line  than  Per  Hall- 
strom's."^  His  method  of  narration  is  rather  by 
ever-widening  circles  which,  ere  they  reach  their 
goal,  have  succeeded  in  including  many  wonderful 
and  beautiful,  if  not  strictly  essential,  things  that 
one  would  not  willingly  forego.  While  the  read- 
er's patience  may  occasionally  be  taxed  by  these 
digressions,  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  suggestive- 
ness   and  profound  Implications  of  some  of  the 
stories  could  be  achieved   in  any  other  way.  A 
minor  point  of  interest  is  that  instead  of  following 
the  common  practice  of  giving  to  each  collection 
the  title  of  the  first  story  in  it,  Hallstrom  invents 
a  title  for  the  whole  book  which  binds  it  together 
under  some  single  aspect  and  happily  brings  out 
the  essential  note  of  the  whole.   Such  titles  are 
Strayed  Birds,  Purple,  Thanatos,  The  Four  Ele- 
ments. The  stories  chosen  for  the  present  volume 
therefore  suffer  from  being  torn  out  of  the  collec- 
tions to  which  they  belong,  though  this  disadvan- 
tage may  perhaps  be  partly  compensated  by  the 
greater  variety  gained. 

1  Levertln. 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

Per  Hallstrom  Is  a  writer  with  a  remarkable 
combination  of  gifts,  an  extremely  wide  range, 
and  many  qualities  which,  but  for  the  accident  of 
language,  would  have  made  him  far  more  widely 
known.  His  intimate  knowledge  and  warm  appre- 
ciation of  English  literature,^  his  imaginative 
power,  and  the  strongly  moral  significance  of  his 
work  are  some  of  the  reasons  why  he  should  be 
especially  appreciated  in  English-speaking  coun- 
tries. The  vague  suggestiveness  and  occasional 
heaviness  and  obscurity  of  his  style  render  him 
by  no  means  an  easy  author  to  translate,  and  none 
can  be  more  sensible  than  the  present  translator  of 
the  defects  of  this  attempt.  Yet  it  seemed  regret- 
table that  so  serious  an  artist,  with  so  wide  a  range 
of  sympathies  and  culture,  and  one,  moreover, 
whose  early  imagination  was  fed  and  nourished 
on  the  nectar  and  ambrosia  of  English  Romantic 
poetry,  should  remain  for  so  long  comparatively 
unknown  in  those  foreign  countries  where  he  was 
most  likely  to  be  appreciated. 

I  desire  to  express  my  thanks  to  the  author  him- 
self for  the  ready  sanction  he  has  given  to  my 
undertaking,  and  for  his  great  kindness  in  advising 


^  Hallstrom's  knowledge  of  the  English  national  character 
would  seem  to  be  less  complete,  while  he  sees  only  one  side, 
and  that  not  the  greatest,  of  American  life  and  character.  But 
it  has  not  been  thought  necessary  to  dwell  in  this  place  upon  his 
recent  political  essays,  papers  which  in  their  very  nature  are 
ephemeral  and  which  may  be  omitted  from  a  consideration  of 
their  author's  more  enduring  and  more  purely  literary  work. 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

me  in  the  matter  of  the  selection  of  the  stories. 
In  this  difficult  task  of  selection  I  have  further 
had  the  advantage  of  the  kind  assistance  of  Pro- 
fessor Book,  of  the  University  of  Lund,  my  in- 
debtedness to  whose  writings  {Sveriges  moderna 
litteratur,  Sveriges  tiatiojiallitteratur,  Essayer  och 
kritiker,  and  articles  in  Ord  och  Bild  and  Svenska 
Daghladet)  may  be  here  generally  acknowledged. 
I  owe  a  special  debt  of  gratitude  to  Professor 
Book  for  his  friendly  advice  and  encouragement 
in  the  initial  stages  of  my  work.  Lastly,  Dr.  Eilert 
Ekwall,  Professor  of  English  in  the  same  uni- 
versity, has  been  good  enough  to  spend  some  hours 
in  assisting  me  over  various  difficulties  of  language, 
and  to  him  also,  for  this  as  for  other  acts  of  kind- 
ness, my  sincere  thanks  are  due.  For  the  final 
choice  of  the  stories,  as  well  as  for  all  defects  in 
the  translation,  I  myself  must  accept  full  respon- 
sibility. 

F.  J.   FIELDEN. 
Lund,  October,  Jg2i. 


SYMPOSIUM 

[SYMPOSION] 

FROM  VILSNA  FAGLAR 
1894 


Symposium 

ANY  ONE  who  met  Herr  Oswald  Helnrich 
l\.  von  Riesenbach  briskly  making  his  way  to- 
wards the  old  aristocratic  quarter  of  Philadelphia, 
with  a  familiar  glance  at  the  dreary  rigid  houses, 
could  easily  gather  from  a  number  of  minor  char- 
acteristics, almost  impossible  to  seize  individually 
— the  concave  arch  of  his  back,  the  curve  of  his 
mustache,  the  grasp  of  his  fingers  round  the 
handle  of  his  stick — that  his  name  was  von  Riesen- 
bach and  that  he  represented  that  portion  of  the 
nobility  of  Europe  which,  without  forgetting  its 
privileges  of  birth,  was  modern  enough  here  in 
the  New  World  to  devote  itself  to  work  with  fever- 
ish energy  and  attach  little  importance  to  mere 
outward  elegance  of  attire. 

Any  one  meeting  him  a  few  moments  later  on 
the  other  side  of  Oliver  Street,  where  the  fine 
houses  show  their  straight  backs  only  and  a  quite 
humble  class  of  society  begins,  could  with  equal 
certainty  conclude  from  his  lingering  steps  and 
his  interested  and  observant  glances  that  he  was 
called  von  Riesenbach  and  that,  in  addition  to  the 
qualities  already  mentioned,  he  had  enough  of 
warm  humanity  in  him  to  study  also  the  struggles 
of  the  lower  classes,  and  to  employ  his  abundant 


4  PER  HALLSTROM 

leisure  time  in  taking  walks  and  enriching  his 
memory  with  amusing  trifles. 

In  both  cases  Herr  von  Riesenbach  would  have 
been  judged  aright,  yet  only  so  as  a  great  actor's 
creations  are  rightly  understood,  for  Herr  von 
Riesenbach  did  not  live  in  the  elegant  quarter,  he 
had  nothing  to  do,  and  consequently  was  never  in 
any  hurry  to  get  home ;  neither  had  he  the  slightest 
interest  in  the  life  of  the  poorer  streets,  for  this, 
on  the  contrary,  was  a  torment  to  him.  But  he 
lived,  quite  unpretentiously.  In  one  of  these  streets, 
and  this  was  only  his  artfully  elaborated  plan  for 
reaching  his  dwelling  without  being  suspected  of 
it,  while  he  obviously  gave  every  one  to  know  that 
he  lived  in  one  of  the  respectable  houses  with 
asphalt  in  front,  and  balconies,  and  a  view  on  to 
some  scanty  green  space  and  a  church  or  two. 

Properly,  he  was  not  called  von  Riesenbach 
either,  but  had  taken  the  name  from  his  mother 
in  the  hope  of  thereby  attaining  what  he  had  con- 
ceived as  his  object  in  life  in  America — a  marriage 
with  some  rich  girl. 

I  have  forgotten  to  mention  that  he  had  been 
an  officer  in  the  reserve,  but  that  goes  without 
saying,  since  he  was  a  German  immigrant;  he  had 
also  possessed  a  diamond  breastpin  and  a  ring 
with  a  large  pearl  in  it,  which  he  used  to  twirl 
round  absent-mindedly  as  he  sat  in  the  tram  cars. 

But  that  was  before  the  date  of  this  story. 


SYMPOSIUM  5 

Of  the  diamond  there  now  remained  only  cer- 
tain inscriptions  on  the  windows  that  had  once 
been  von  Riesenbach's,  and  a  Jew  had  fliclced  at 
the  pearl  with  his  long  black  nails  and  said  that 
"it  was  not  ripe,  and  therefore  hardly  worth 
twenty  dollars,  but  he  supposed  he  could  take  it 
for  a  little  while."  Since  that  day  he  had  now 
been  In  undisturbed  possession  of  It  for  several 
months. 

Von  Riesenbach  had  gone  down  in  the  world, 
and  the  above  description  no  longer  quite  fitted 
him,  for  now  he  never  visited  the  elegant  quarters 
of  the  town,  but  kept  to  the  river  banks,  the  fac- 
tory districts,  and  the  outer  parks,  and  he  no 
longer  lived  in  the  humble  street.  He  had  no  home 
at  all ;  he  slept  where  he  could,  and  latterly — since 
the  weather  was  warm — for  the  most  part  in  one 
of  the  suburbs.  He  looked  for  work,  but  rarely 
found  any,  and  never  managed  to  keep  it.  He 
could  do  nothing ;  he  was  gloomy  and  seemed  made 
on  purpose  for  Irish  navvies  to  exercise  their  wit 
upon;  and  so  he  went  about  starving,  shyly  turn- 
ing corners,  and  constantly  wandering  deeper  and 
deeper  into  a  labyrinth,  as  it  seemed  to  him. 

He  pondered  and  brooded  as  he  went.  He  was 
not  at  all  of  a  critical  turn  of  mind  and  had  never 
had  a  superabundance  of  ideas,  but  when  he  stood 
hungry  in  front  of  a  window  full  of  articles  of 
food,    more    Ideas    came    than    he    could    well 


6  PER  HALLSTROM 

manage — catastrophic  Ideas,  whose  consequences 
pushed  him  still  more  helplessly  aside  than  the 
stern  reality  had  done.  He  felt  a  gnawing  envy  of 
well-nigh  every  one,  could  not  hide  his  feelings 
under  a  finer  name,  and  suffered  at  the  fact.  At 
last  he  took  refuge  In  longing,  In  calling  to  mind 
his  happier  position  before  he  had  been  fool 
enough  to  fling  It  away,  and  In  cherishing  timid 
expectations  of  some  chance  which  would  set  him 
on  his  feet  again.  He  was  the  most  luckless  of 
vagabonds  because  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
belong  to  the  class.  He  felt  like  some  disguised 
Haroun  al  Raschid  under  the  bastinado  and  un- 
able to  prove  his  Identity. 

One  sunny  morning  he  was  shaking  the  blood 
Into  his  veins  outside  a  white  villa,  dejectedly  medi- 
tating plans  for  getting  breakfast,  when  a  figure 
which  he  seemed  to  recognize  came  along  the 
street. 

It  was  a  German  named  Miiller,  a  broad- 
shouldered,  keen-eyed  fellow  who  had  studied 
everything  under  the  sun,  and,  as  he  himself  ex- 
pressed it,  was  acquainted  with  the  portals  to  all 
the  temples  of  knowledge,  yet  could  never  even 
get  a  post  as  porter  or  watch-dog  at  any  of  them — 
he  had  never  had  enough  regard  for  his  dignity, 
"And  if  I'm  not  even  fit  for  a  professorship  In  this 
country,"  he  would  sigh  over  his  glass  of  beer, 
"I'll  gladly  set  up  as  a  nigger,  one  of  those  who 


SYMPOSIUM  7 

act  the  'Living  Head'  at  village  fairs,  and  stick 
their  topknots  through  a  hole  for  people  to  shy 
balls  at,  three  shies  for  five  cents." 

He  had  almost  reached  the  necessary  tint  now, 
tanned  as  he  was  by  dust  and  sunshine.  His  pri- 
vate tutorships  in  German  families  were  long  since 
a  thing  of  the  past,  and  so  were  the  soles  of  his 
boots. 

Riesenbach  had  met  him  In  beer-shops  in  better 
days,  and  his  robust  loquacity  had  not  exactly  ap- 
pealed to  him,  but  now  he  thought  a  little  chat 
might  warm  him  up.  He  was  curious  to  know  the 
reason  for  the  other's  haste,  a  thing  so  temptingly 
unusual  when  one  has  an  ocean  of  time  about  one. 
Miiller  greeted  him  in  friendly  but  absent-minded 
fashion:  "You,  too,  a  man  of  the  guild?  Well, 
how  d'you  like  it  now?  Tell  me  straight!"  He 
looked  inquiringly  at  him,  as  if  the  answer  were 
impossible  to  guess.  "It  has  its  different  sides. — 
But  excuse  me,  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Will  you  come  along 
and  have  something  to  eat?" 

The  word  "eat"  drove  out  all  the  others.  "With 
pleasure!  I'm  hungry." 

"Hungry?  Let's  hurry  up,  then.  My  appetite, 
too,  is  best  in  the  mornings.  It's  practice,  you 
see;  I  seldom  eat  other  times.  And  besides,  how 
could  one  better  show  one's  joy  in  existence  than" 
— here  his  voice  took  on  a  caressing  tone,  as  though 
he  were  about  to  touch  on  some  familiar  and  well- 


8  PER  HALLSTROM 

loved  topic — "than  by  eating  a  nice  fresh  loaf  and 
drinking  milk  to  It  on  a  lovely  morning  like  this?" 

"Hm!  Beer  and  meat  wouldn't  be  a  bad  way, 
either." 

"Beer!  Beer,  you  say,  and  meat?  I'm  sorry  for 
you.  That  speech  points  to  a  materialistic  gross- 
ness  of  mind,  such  as  ill  suits  our  butterfly  exist- 
ences." 

They  had  reached  a  clean-swept  little  street  of 
peaceful  red  two-storied  houses,  with  white  win- 
dow casements  and  marble  steps.  Miiller's  glance 
stole  uneasily  forwards,  but  soon  calmed  down 
again. 

"Yes,  the  cloth's  spread  now.  We  have  nearly 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  before  us,  I  think."  He 
turned  off  at  an  iron  fence,  stopped  at  a  flight  of 
steps  where  a  basket  and  a  milk-can  stood,  and 
threw  himself  down  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
Riesenbach  staring  at  him. 

"They  put  out  the  can  and  the  basket  every 
evening,  you  see,  so  as  not  to  have  to  get  up  early 
and  shop,  and  then  In  the  morning  they  find  milk 
and  bread  there,  like  good  little  children  when 
they  get  presents,  but  to-day  they  won't  get  any. 
Fall  to!" 

"But  that's  stealing!  How  d'you  expect  me 
....  My  reputation  .  .  .  ." 

"Stealing!  Ach  was!  Fiddlesticks!  Won't  you 
take  what  life  offers,  or  will  you  rather  pine  away 


SYMPOSIUM  9 

like  another  Echo  till  only  your  name  is  left,  and 
a  whispered  'von  Riesenbach,'  'von  Riesenbach' 
sounds  from  the  blind  alleys  every  time  I  break 
an  excellent  loaf  like  this?  The  sweetest  little 
baker's  girl  comes  here,  with  cheeks  like  tea-cakes, 
— I  generally  see  her  at  a  distance — as  plump  as 
Flora  herself  or  Ceres  or  the  studies  of  heads  in 
Gartenlaube,  and  offers  you  the  loveliest  golden 
bread,  and  you  remain  hard  and  cold!" 

His  voice  was  so  convincing,  and  he  sat  in  such 
an  attitude  of  unimpeachable  right  that  Riesen- 
bach felt  he  must  give  way. 

Miiller  continued  in  a  milder  tone :  "We  are  but 
birds,  you  know,  picking  up  crumbs" — his  mouth 
was  dilated  by  an  enormous  piece — "I  a  great  tit, 
and  you  a  heraldic  bird  with  two  heads,  that  pre- 
vent each  other  from  eating." 

Riesenbach  took  the  half-loaf  gracefully  offered 
him  and  ate  in  silence,  not  without  uneasy  glances 
at  the  windows.  Muller  politely  pressed  him  to  the 
contents  of  the  can:  "Take  a  drink,  drink  deep! 
Help  yourself! — Drat  that  milkman!  Didn't  I 
think  as  much,  when  I  saw  his  narrow  gallows  look? 
He  puts  water  in  the  milk,  the  scoundrel,  and  we're 
expected  to  put  up  with  it! — Here's  a  paper,  too. 
The  Press,  I  see.  So  they're  Republicans  in  this 
house?  Let's  see  if  there's  anything  interesting 
in  It." 

He  folded  the  newspaper  with  a  voter's  air  of 


10  PER  HALLSTROM 

authorized  dignity,  smiled  like  a  pedagogue  now 
and  again  at  some  clumsy  phrase,  seemed  to  find 
the  whole  thing  boring,  yet  endured  it  good- 
naturedly.  Riesenbach  began  to  think  aloud, 
tempted  by  the  unwonted  peace  he  felt  to  give 
expression  to  the  thoughts  that  constantly  op- 
pressed him.  He  half  indulged  the  hope  that  now 
he  would  be  able  to  collect  his  ideas  and  justify 
himself  to  some  extent  in  another's  eyes. 

"If  only  we  could  live  our  lives  again,"  he 
began,  "if  only  some  one  would  help  us!  Don't 
you  think  we  could  rise  again  and  be  even  better 
than  before?  One  learns  so  much  this  way,  if  only 
misfortune  didn't  press  one  down.  Oh,  just  give 
me  a  place  and  let  me  show  you  !" 

Miiller  ironically  puckered  up  his  eyebrows. 
"What  would  you  be?  A  magistrate?"  He  laid 
down  the  paper  and  shook  himself.  "Always  the 
same  things  in  them,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "the 
same  torrent  of  words,  the  abuse  and  insults  that 
nobody  means;  at  bottom  they're  so  much  alike, 
both  parties.  Their  charges  and  defenses  remind 
me  of  a  rascal  in  a  Danish  comedy,  who  plays  the 
part  of  two  opposing  lawyers  in  court,  pleads  into 
his  own  mouth,  and  finally  boxes  both  his  own  ears. 
But  let  them  go  their  way!  Here  we  sit,  the  dar- 
lings of  creation,  our  life  a  constant  Sabbath! 
Then  let  the  ox  bellow  in  the  well :  we  won't  help 
him  out!  Unhappy,  do  you  say?  Vcila  me  Dios! 


SYMPOSIUM  II 

Can  there  be  anything  more  poetically  free  and 
splendid  than  our  life  here?  Such  golden  sunshine 
slanting  along  the  street,  white  marble  steps  to 
sit  on — just  like  disguised  little  princes  in  the  fairy- 
tales— and  milk  and  bread!  ....  Milk  and 
bread,  and  marble  steps !  What  more  has  life  to 
offer,  unless  it  were  a  cigar,  possibly?  Inside  that 
house  they  are  sleeping  and  dreaming  of  money  to 
buy  a  piano  with,  or  else  of  how  to  get  their  fel- 
low-citizens to  elect  them  a  'city-wardsman,'  while 
we  enjoy  the  cream  of  life  (somewhat  diluted, 
certainly),  invite  ourselves  to  just  a  little  of  their 
breakfast,  and  leave  them  their  whole  heap  of 
troubles  both  for  lunch  and  supper." 

His  laughing  countenance  was  merry  as  a  sun- 
rise against  the  red  wall.  Riesenbach  at  that  mo- 
ment felt  a  sincere  admiration  for  him  and  was 
almost  proud  to  be  sitting  on  the  same  steps  as  he. 
Miiller  got  up,  stretched  out  the  arm  with  the 
milk-can,  and  declaimed: 

"See  here !  This  last  remnant  of  watered  milk 
I  offer  upon  this  marble  altar  to  the  sun  and  to 
Delight.  May  she  long  thrive  on  the  outskirts  of 
this  needlessly  noisy  world,  may  she  not  be  alto- 
gether scared  away  by  steam  whistles,  and  may 
she  now  and  again  find  her  breakfast  outside  her 
sleeping  fellow-citizens'  gates.  Evoel  E-e-e  .... 
Look  there  !  Now  they're  moving  inside  the  house  ! 
I  shouted  too  loud !  Off  with  us,  quick !  I  shouldn't 


12  PER  HALLSTROM 

like  to  see  their  annoyance  at  losing  the  milk:  it 
would  have  a  disturbing  effect  upon  my  love  of 
humankind." 

A  couple  of  streets  away  they  parted.  Miiller 
broke  off  a  sprig  of  flowering  creeper  and  carried 
it  between  his  lips,  swaying  unconcernedly  in  the 
sunshine.  RIesenbach  felt  the  tide  of  his  good 
spirits  ebb  as  quickly  as  it  had  risen,  was  ashamed 
at  having  had  to  flee,  and  stood  looking  after  his 
comrade. 


AMOR 

[AMOR] 

FROM  BRILJANTSMYCKET,  ETC, 

1896 


Amor 

WHEN  Christine  first  came  to  Mrs.  Asplund, 
both  of  them  thought  it  was  by  the  direct 
interposition  of  Providence  that  she  had  been  sent 
there,  with  a  Registry  Office,  as  it  happened,  for 
intermediary,  and  two  sHghtly  drunken  men  with  a 
cart  as  a  means  of  conveyance  for  her  things. 

And  since  the  weather  was  fine  that  day,  and 
her  chest  of  drawers  was  got  through  the  door 
without  accident,  Christine  regarded  that  too  as  a 
sign  of  especial  grace,  and  sat  down  to  weep  out 
of  gratitude  and  a  mildly  oppressive  feeling  that 
she  had  not  deserved  all  this,  but  would  strive  her 
utmost  to  do  so. 

When  a  month  had  passed  by,  Mrs.  Asplund 
was  no  longer  so  sure  as  to  the  powers  that  guided 
Christine's  fate,  for  she  had  discovered  in  her  an 
occasionally  shameless  appetite,  but  if  only  this 
defect  of  nature  were  held  in  check  and  their  inter- 
course were  attuned  to  its  proper  key  by  suitable 
severity,  she  was  nevertheless  tolerably  well  con- 
tent with  her  servant,  especially  in  contrast  to 
the  last  shameless  creature,  who  wore  a  hat  with 
poppies  in  it  and  received  letters  addressed 
"Miss,"  and  once,  just  before  the  cup  of  her  in- 
iquity overflowed,  went  for  a  walk  on  a  Friday 

IS 


i6  PER  HALLSTROM 

evening.  Christine,  on  the  other  hand,  still  con- 
tinued to  believe  in  the  divine  occasion  of  her  com- 
ing, and  felt  her  responsibility  to  be  deep. 

Certainly  the  old  lady  was  a  trial  sometimes, 
but  then,  bless  you,  she  was  so  old  too,  and  lonely 
and  sick,  and  Christine  knew  in  her  own  case  that  if 
she  had  had  any  authority  over  any  one,  she  herself 
might  perhaps  not  always  have  been  so  very  good- 
tempered.  However,  she  had  never  been  in  that 
position,  on  the  contrary  It  was  always  others  that 
had  exercised  authority  over  her,  and  had  more- 
over exercised  it  to  some  purpose.  She  would  soon 
be  forty,  and  would  be  so  glad  to  think  that  she 
was  to  take  root  In  that  place  and  would  never 
have  to  move,  and  the  wages,  too,  were  higher 
than  usual,  since  she  had  to  be  something  very 
like  a  nurse,  and  all  things  considered  It  must  be 
regarded  as  an  excellent  place,  especially  when 
compared  with  the  lot  of  those  who  had  neither 
food  nor  bed.  Christine  often  made  such  compari- 
sons, and  they  never  failed  to  comfort  her  as  far 
as  her  own  troubles  were  concerned,  although  they 
brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  all 
unhappy  creatures. 

In  order  to  manage  her  mistress  she  further 
hit  upon  the  plan  of  taking  her  humorously,  which 
subtler.  If  not  more  humble,  minds  than  Christine's 
have  found  to  be  the  only  possible  way  of  circum- 
venting the  troubles  of  life. 


AMOR  17 

She  first  applied  her  method  by  meeting  all  the 
old  lady's  squabbles  with  a  broad  smile  and  re- 
ceiving her  abuses  as  if  they  had  been  the  witty 
inventions  of  a  precocious  child;  but  this  met  with 
no  success,  bringing  upon  her  only  sundry  out- 
spoken remarks  concerning  the  expression  of  her 
face  and  an  evident  mistrust  as  to  the  condition  of 
her  brain.  Then  Christine  in  her  need  would  find 
her  reply  by  a  singular  inspiration,  for  it  would 
never  have  occurred  to  her  to  bandy  words  for 
the  pleasure  of  so  doing,  she  being  all  humility 
and  entirely  without  self-esteem  or  any  belief  In 
her  own  talents.  And  so  it  was  without  at  all  put- 
ting her  soul  into  them,  more  as  If  they  had  been 
the  reflections  of  a  third  person,  that  she  made 
her  contributions  to  the  discussion.  But  this  method 
succeeded  quite  well.  The  poor  invalid  liked 
being  answered  back  and  received  from  her  dis- 
putes a  sense  of  exhilaration  such  as  she  might  have 
derived  from  a  bout  with  the  foils :  even  her  rheu- 
matism was  improved  by  them. 

Their  days  usually  passed  in  the  following 
manner. 

When  Christine  came  In  about  eight  o'clock — 
having  reveled  in  her  independence  for  a  couple 
of  hours  previously,  busying  herself  with  lighter 
duties  and  singing  Into  cupboards.  In  extremely 
subdued  tones,  just  before  she  closed  their  doors 
— she  saw  at  first  nothing  of  her  mistress.    For 


1 8  PER  HALLSTROM 

Mrs.  Asplund,  to  protect  herself  from  draughts, 
had  fenced  herself  about  with  six  open  umbrellas, 
three  on  each  side,  and  the  wide  four-poster  con- 
sequently looked  almost  like  part  of  an  ancient 
galley  with  its  garland  of  shields.  Christine,  of 
course,  did  not  know  this,  but  she  was  none  the 
less  seized  with  a  feeling  of  more  than  common 
respect  every  time  she  came  in,  and  it  was  never 
without  a  certain  trepidation  that  she  moved  the 
topmost  umbrella  away  towards  the  inner  wall. 
And  there  the  old  woman  lay.  Christine  could  not 
distinguish  much  of  her,  but  she  heard  her  com- 
plaints rising  feebly  out  of  the  dark  abyss.  Not  a 
wink  had  she  slept,  not  one  wink,  while  on  the 
other  hand  she,  Christine,  had  been  snoring  in  a 
shameless  fashion.  Nobody  could  understand  what 
she  suffered,  least  of  all  she,  Christine,  v/ho  gen- 
erally speaking  understood  nothing  at  all,  and 
went  about  like  an  elephant  (although,  without 
deserving  it,  she  had  been  given  felt  slippers  for 
Christmas)  and  could  now  only  be  prevented  from 
breaking  the  lamp-glass  by  the  last  poor  act  of 
strained  vigilance  on  the  part  of  a  sick  woman. 

For  Christine  this  had  become  a  litany,  which 
she  in  a  certain  way  liked  to  hear,  much  as  she 
enjoyed  the  Sunday  poundings  in  church,  which 
she  took  as  a  necessary  culinary  preparation  for 
the  life  of  eternity.  She  listened  to  it  more  as  to 
music  than  to  words  with  sense  and  truth  in  them, 


AMOR  19 

and  ended  it  by  jokingly  putting  up  the  last  umbrel- 
la as  a  defense  and  peeping  over  the  edge.  This 
never  failed  to  amuse  her  mistress,  and  by  making 
speedy  use  of  the  mood  of  the  moment  Christine 
could  get  permission  to  lift  her  up  and  begin  her 
toilet.  When,  after  a  couple  of  hours,  this  was  so 
far  advanced  that  the  old  lady  sat  in  her  chair 
before  the  mirror,  and  the  pains  in  the  poor  joints 
had  subsided,  the  decisive  battle  of  the  day  was 
fought  out. 

Christine  had  to  comb  her  hair,  and  if  she  suc- 
ceeded during  this  delicate  proceeding  in  warding 
off  the  attacks,  the  day  was  saved.  Before  the  mir- 
ror, too,  with  their  reflections  right  in  front  of 
them  within  the  wooden  frame,  they  felt  like  four 
persons,  and  made  every  effort  to  show  the  wit 
and  force  demanded  in  so  large  a  company. 

Mrs.  Asplund  always  began  with  something  di- 
rectly personal. 

"You're  as  ugly  as  Satan,"  she  said,  vigorously 
threatening  Christine's  image  with  her  chin,  "your 
face  is  like  a  ball  of  wool,  I  can't  bear  to  look  at 
it" — and  that  was  not  a  bad  comparison  either, 
her  coarse  and  high  complexion  was  not  unlike 
red  wool,  especially  with  the  lamplight  coming 
sharply  from  beneath,  and  certainly  her  head  was 
round.  But  neither  had  Christine  herself  any  delu- 
sions as  to  her  appearance,  and  therefore  she  was 
not   offended  but   rather   felt   flattered   that   she 


20  PER  HALLSTROM 

"looked"  anything  at  all,  and  found  the  compari- 
son with  so  large  a  ball  of  wool  something  quite 
opulent  and  not  at  all  derogatory. 

"Well,  m'm,"  she  would  answer,  in  a  childishly 
pouting  tone,  "some  folks  is  so  handsome  that 
they  gets  proud,  and  it's  only  so  as  not  to  be  proud 
that  I've  made  myself  so  ugly.  But  if  you  like, 
ma'am,  it  can  be  different  to-morrow,  only  then 
perhaps  the  lieutenants  will  come  and  take  me 
away  from  you,  and  if  I  get  too  handsome  they 
may  make  a  mistake  between  us." 

"You  and  your  lieutenants !  You'd  hardly  be 
allowed  to  brush  their  servant's  servant's  boots  1 
But  there  we  see  what  ideas  and  plans  you've  got 
in  your  head!" — the  tone  malicious,  and  every 
word  with  more  teeth  in  it  than  one  would  have 
thought  possible  in  so  old  a  mouth,  but  at  the  same 
time  enlivened  at  the  idea  of  these  sinful  but  de- 
lightful creatures,  as  dainty  and  as  dangerous  as 
crackers. 

"That's  not  it,  ma'am,  it's  because  you  carry  on 
and  snap  like  a  horse  that  I  think  about  lieuten- 
ants." 

And  so  they  would  continue,  till  the  old 
woman's  narrow  plaits  were  coiled  up  into  a  bas- 
ket, topped  on  Sundays  by  a  flaming  rosette. 

But  sometimes  also  they  would  talk  of  serious 
things.  Then  Christine  did  not  open  her  mouth, 
but  listened  with  respect  to  what  one  of  her  bet- 


AMOR  21 

ters  had  to  say,  one  who  had  been  taught  and  had 
gone  to  school,  and  at  these  times  she  felt  warmly 
towards  her  mistress,  especially  when  the  latter 
began  to  talk  about  religion,  as  of  course  she 
always  did. 

They  might  begin  with  the  wires  over  the 
yard,  those  strange  hollow  wires  that  the  godless 
people  of  to-day  had  found  out  how  to  talk 
through,  though  they  would  never  get  her,  Mrs. 
Asplund,  to  put  her  mouth  to  one  of  those  treach- 
erous boxes.  "Think  of  the  Judgment,  Christine, 
how  they'll  be  torn  off,  and  what  a  tangle  there 
will  be!" 

"Oh,  dear!"  Christine  had  never  thought  of 
that.  "But  since  there  are  such  things  .... 
There'll  be  some  remedy  for  that,  too." 

"Ah,  the  Judgment!  Yes,  yes,  we  aren't  what 
we  should  be.  I'm  not  very  gentle  sometimes — 
but  w^hen  one  suffers  so !  And  you  aren't  what  you 
should  be  either,  Christine,  though  you  are  not 
ill!" 

Oh,  no,  Christine  knew  that  well  enough,  and 

she  had  had  no  schooling  either!  But  there  was 

nothing  to  say  against  her  mistress,  nothing  at  all ! 

"And    think   of    eternity,    Christine,    think    of 

eternity!" 

Christine  thought  of  eternity,  or  at  least  tried 
as  honestly  as  any  one  else  to  do  so,  and  the  tears 
came  into  her  eyes.  She  wished  everybody  so  well, 


22  PER  HALLSTROM 

and  blushed  to  be  concerned  In  anything  so  great. 

"To  sit  by  the  throne  of  the  Lamb — ah,  frail 
creatures  that  we  are!  But  we  have  such  faith, 
Christine,  and  so  .   .   .  ." 

Yes,  certainly,  Christine  had  faith,  too,  but  she 
only  desired  a  quite  humble  place,  not  exactly 
among  the  really  blessed,  some  kind  of  a  servant's 
place  there  also. 

"Oh,  but  It  isn't  so  up  there,  Christine,  It  Isn't 
so,  although  It  may  seem  strange;  there's  no  dif- 
ference there.  If  you  only  believe." 

Christine  believed,  fully  and  firmly  believed, 
and  she  thought  that  her  mistress  would  be  her 
joy  and  great  protection  there.  But  she  said  noth- 
ing of  this,  and  had  she  done  so  she  would  have 
been  met  by  politely  modest  objections.  She  was 
edified  in  her  Inmost  heart  far  more  than  even 
on  Sundays,  for  this  she  understood  so  well,  she 
could  feel  it  In  her  soul,  and  she  was  a  long  time 
drying  her  eyes  In  the  kitchen  afterwards. 

Usually  her  mistress  was  there  with  her,  wear- 
ing a  cloak  that  she  had  lately  had  made,  although 
she  never  went  outside  the  door,  because  she  felt 
it  as  a  duty  of  state.  It  was  very  elegant,  and  had 
five  shoulder-capes.  Out  in  the  kitchen  she  would 
have  a  finger  In  everything,  partly  to  kill  time, 
partly  because  she  suspected  Christine  of  careless- 
ness, waste,  or  even  actual  dishonesty. 

She  kept  so  sharp  an  eye  upon  her  that  Christine 


AMOR  23 

always  felt  as  if  the  pins  in  her  clothes  had  got 
out  of  place.  Sometimes  she  had  to  hold  the  old 
lady  up  while  she  lectured  by  the  hour  on  how 
things  should  be  done,  and  as  the  day  was  long 
enough  for  a  sick  woman,  there  often  came  abuse 
and  hard  words,  but  Christine's  temper  was  not 
spoiled;  she  felt  quite  at  her  ease  amid  it  all  and 
even  grew  a  little  stouter,  and  would  have  sung, 
when  she  was  alone  again  in  the  evenings,  if  it 
could  have  been  done  noiselessly. 

And  so  they  might  long  have  lived  In  all  regu- 
larity as  a  notable  example  of  authority  in  a  mis- 
tress and  submission  in  a  servant,  had  not  Fate, 
which  exists  but  to  make  tragedies,  amused  herself 
by  tearing  asunder  these  bands  also. 

One  Sunday  evening,  when  twilight  had  come, 
Mrs.  Asplund  was  dozing  in  her  chair,  having 
laid  upon  the  closed  lid  of  her  sewing-basket  a 
tract  with  the  title  "Whither  art  thou  dancing?" — 
a  question  somewhat  unnecessary  in  her  case. 
Christine,  meanwhile,  was  alone  in  the  kitchen, 
under  a  shelf  full  of  cups  shining  with  their  Sun- 
day polish,  when  suddenly  there  was  a  sound  of 
stumbling  outside  the  door,  and  something  fell 
against  the  latch.  Christine  realized  that  some  one 
had  hurt  himself,  and  hastened  to  open.  Outside 
in  the  fading  light  a  slender  stooping  figure  rose, 
holding  his  hands  to  his  forehead,  and  he  did  not 
take  them  away  to  look  when  the  ray  of  light 


24  PER  HALLSTROM 

from  the  door  fell  upon  him,  so  he  must  have 
hurt  himself  badly. 

To  Christine's  frightened  question  he  replied 
that  certainly  he  had  hurt  himself  a  little,  but  it 
was  nothing  serious;  he  often  ran  into  things,  he 
said. 

"Yes,  it's  so  dark  here  in  the  twilight,"  said 
Christine. 

Oh,  that  made  no  difference  to  him,  for  he  was 
blind.  And  he  took  away  his  hands  and  stood  there 
with  a  long  red  mark  on  his  forehead  and  his 
clouded  swimming  eyes  right  opposite  hers — oh, 
how  sorry  she  felt  for  him,  and  what  a  blow  he 
had  given  himself! 

"Blind!  Blind,  poor  fellow,  are  you  blind? 
Come  in  and  rest  here.  Quite  blind,  is  it?  Can't 
you  see  a  bit  here  in  the  light?" 

No,  he  could  not,  he  said,  and  laughed  that  it 
should  be  so  hard  for  her  to  understand  how  com- 
pletely blind  he  was.  As  Christine  always  liked 
it  when  people  laughed  at  her,  so  long  as  it  was 
not  done  in  evident  malice,  she  was  pleased  now, 
too,  and  tried  to  be  as  nice  as  possible  to  the 
stranger.  There  was  also  something  so  helpless 
and  childlike  about  him  as  he  stood  there  with 
his  poor  vacant  eyes,  his  mouth  smiling  so  readily, 
as  if  every  word  granted  him  were  a  friendly  gift. 

He  had  a  thin,  light  beard  and  smooth  hair 
which  was   rather   long.   His   slender  figure  had 


AMOR  25 

also,  when  he  sat,  that  upright,  snail-like,  bal- 
ancing position  which  the  blind  get  through  grop- 
ing about  with  hands  outstretched,  his  arms  lay 
curved  along  his  sides,  and  the  fingers  met  in  his 
lap  and  danced  and  twined  about  each  other  as 
neatly  as  if  every  one  of  them  could  see  and  as 
regularly  as  if  he  were  at  work. 

His  name  was  Qvist,  it  came  out  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  and  he  had  been  living  in  the 
house  for  two  or  three  days,  in  a  room  in  the 
attic.  He  made  a  living — not  a  very  good  one  but 
as  good  as  could  be  expected — by  basket-weaving, 
and  did  his  own  room  and  made  his  own  bed  and 
cooked  for  himself  and  never  burnt  himself  in 
doing  so,  and  seldom  went  out,  though  he  could 
find  his  way  anywhere  very  well. 

But  however  could  he  find  his  way,  when  she, 
Christine,  knocked  into  things  when  she  went 
about  if  it  was  ever  so  little  dark? 

Oh,  he  could  feel  draughts  from  gateways  and 
streets  and  squares,  quite  different  draughts — 
sucking  ones,  cold  ones,  swift  or  whirling  ones — 
and  then  there  was  the  noise,  he  heard  every  part 
of  it  and  understood  whence  it  came.  And  of  peo- 
ple he  could  feel  something — the  warmth  or  the 
fact  that  some  one  was  there,  and  horses  he  took 
good  care  not  to  go  near.  But  still  it  wasn't  pleas- 
ant to  go  out.  His  only  diversion  was  to  calculate 
exactly  where  he  was,  and  that  was  of  course  a 


26  PER  HALLSTROM 

comfort,  but  nevertheless  It  was  sometimes  a 
tedious  and  anxious  proceeding — and  then  never 
to  feel  or  know  anything  of  the  objects  he  brushed 
past  or  listened  to ! 

Christine  sat  looking  at  him,  sniffing  with  emo- 
tion, her  eyes  almost  as  blind  as  his  from  sheer 
compassion.  "Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  Poor  fellow!" 
— She  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  restraining 
herself  from  throwing  her  rough,  red  arms  around 
his  neck  and  weeping  with  him  and  telling  him 
about  her  own  life,  how  hard  it  had  been  some- 
times and  how  grateful  she  was  now,  and  how 
gladly  she  would  have  given  him  her  sight. 

Then  the  conversation  grew  more  cheerful 
again.  The  blind  man  had  his  room  very  nice  now, 
everything  was  so  tidy  and  spruce;  only  it  was  a 
pity  no  one  came  and  saw  it,  really  saw  it,  for  he 
had  only  friends  who  were  like  himself.  He  could 
play  the  tin  whistle,  too,  till  his  canary  almost 
burst  its  throat  in  competition  with  him,  and  the 
time  was  not  heavy,  for  he  had  such  a  blessed 
gift  of  sleeping  long  and  soundly.  His  mood  be- 
came cheerful,  and  he  joked  as  far  as  was  fitting 
with  a  new  acquaintance — he  had  fallen  down  like 
that,  he  said,  because  he  had  wanted  to  peep  in 
through  the  keyhole,  he  had  heard  there  was 
such  a  pretty  servant-girl  there — and  in  the  end 
they  got  quite  merry  and  might  have  long  con- 
tinued  so,   had  not  the   blind  man   contrived  to 


AMOR  27 

knock  down  a  saucepan,  In  throwing  back  his  head 
too  recklessly  as  he  laughed. 

Then  they  heard  from  the  inner  chamber  a 
groaning  that  might  have  given  voice  to  the  medi- 
tations of  a  whole  ecclesiastical  year  upon  the  sin- 
ful depths  of  life.  It  was  Mrs.  Asplund,  who  had 
been  awakened  and  with  her  rapid  powers  of  com- 
bination had  at  once  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  house  was  on  fire,  and  that  she  was  doomed  to 
be  burnt  alive  while  the  heartless  creature  in  the 
kitchen  was  running  about  the  streets  without  even 
informing  the  police.  Christine  had  to  dismiss  her 
visitor  in  haste,  and  hurry  out  to  reassure  her. 

This  was  a  matter  that  took  some  time,  for 
hardly  had  one  terror  been  driven  away  when  an- 
other took  its  place.  It  was  now  a  regular  roman 
d'intrigiie  about  some  dangerous  relative  of  Chris- 
tine's, who  with  her  consent  had  stolen  one  or 
more  copper  utensils  and  was  now  on  the  way  to 
hide  them  in  a  cave,  until  they  could  be  disposed 
of  without  danger  and  profligate  feasts  could  be 
held  with  the  money.  Christine  had  to  take  her  out 
into  the  kitchen  so  that  she  herself  could  count  over 
every  article,  and  even  then  only  half  succeeded  in 
convincing  her.  The  tranquillity  of  their  life  to- 
gether had  received  a  shock,  and  whatever  Chris- 
tine did.  It  was  difficult  to  avoid  having  her  action 
Interpreted  as  fresh  evidence  that  she  was  a  ser- 
pent, who  was  concealing  something. 


28  PER  HALLSTROM 

And  so  she  was,  for  the  blind  man  sometimes 
came  to  see  her,  but  only  for  short  visits,  just  so 
as  to  rest  before  climbing  his  four  flights  of  stairs. 
He  would  half  sit  upon  the  woodbin  and  did  not 
say  much,  but  only  smiled  so  as  to  show  all  his 
teeth  and  gums,  and  listened  with  delight  to  the 
sound  of  her  work  and  always  thanked  her  when 
he  went. 

Christine  was  so  moved  at  all  this  that  she 
wished  to  do  something  for  him,  but  really  she 
would  have  been  best  pleased  if  he  had  not  come, 
for  the  situation  in  regard  to  her  mistress  was 
becoming  more  and  more  critical. 

Mrs.  Asplund  was  perfectly  clear  in  her  own 
mind  that  her  servant  was  keeping  up  a  liaison, 
and  with  the  quickness  of  imagination  that  always 
characterized  this  lady  she  had  no  difficulty  in  find- 
ing the  man  in  question :  it  could  be  no  other  than 
an  ex-artilleryman,  who  had  lived  in  the  house 
four  years  ago  and  had  then  once  turned  out  to 
be  drunk  when  carrying  wood,  and  whom,  though 
she  had  never  heard  of  him  since,  she  believed  to 
be  capable  of  any  crime.  And  it  was  a  little  trying 
for  Christine,  when  she  had  seen  the  poor  blind 
man's  helpless  friendly  smile  disappear  behind  the 
yellow  door,  to  be  obliged  to  listen  all  the  ensuing 
evening  to  dreadful  insinuations  and  tales  of  the 
bestial  savagery  of  men,  and  to  direct  questions 
(put  in  a  fury  of  rage)   as  to  whether  she  had 


AMOR  29 

"that  carrion"  with  her  In  the  kitchen  every  night. 

Yet  Christine  had  not  the  heart  to  dismiss  him, 
and  so  she  had  to  take  this,  too,  humorously,  as 
far  as  it  was  possible  to  do  so. 

One  Sunday  night  she  even  went  up  to  his  room  : 
he  was  so  anxious  to  show  it  to  her. 

It  lay  at  the  far  end  of  a  brick-walled  passage, 
and  was  not  large :  there  was  only  room  for  his 
clothes  and  the  stove,  on  either  side  of  the  door, 
and  the  uncurtained  window  stared  almost  vacantly 
into  one's  face.  The  room  had  a  curb  roof  on  both 
sides,  and  on  a  hook  in  the  middle  hung  a  bird-cage 
of  precisely  the  same  shape.  The  bed?  Oh,  how 
pitiful  and  poor  It  was.  In  spite  of  all  his  clumsy 
efforts !  Besides  this  there  were  only  a  few  chairs, 
a  washstand,  and  a  table  with  unwieldy  sheets  of 
braille  writing  on  it.  He  had  a  lamp  lit,  and  felt 
busily  with  his  hands  to  see  If  it  was  burning 
properly. 

"Why,  how  nice  everything  is!"  said  Christine. 
"Real  comfortable!" 

He  was  so  delighted  at  her  praise  that  she 
would  willingly  have  strained  the  truth  a  little 
further;  he  beamed  with  satisfaction  and  stroked 
every  object  he  came  at,  even  a  poker,  with  an 
almost  maternal  gesture.  "Yes,  isn't  it!"  How 
pleasant  It  was  that  she  had  come,  who  could  really 
see  and  properly  appreciate  how  he  managed! 
He  had  taken  such  pains  to  think  out  what  would 


30  PER  HALLSTROM 

be  the  best  place  for  everything,  and  was  so  pleased 
that  he  had  succeeded.  He  always  tidied  up  so 
carefully,  too.  Nobody  could  suspect,  could  they, 
that  there  were  osiers  and  a  good  many  finished 
articles  under  the  bed? 

"No,  indeed!  And  so  you've  lit  the  lamp  for 
my  sake,  too?" 

Oh,  no,  not  at  all!  He  always  liked  to  have  a 
light  in  the  evenings,  when  he  could  afford  it,  and 
especially  on  Sundays. 

"But  do  you  see  it,  or  know  about  it?" 

"No,  I  don't  see  it  at  all,  but  I  feel  it,  I  know 
it's  there.  And  then  it  shines  outside,  and  people 
know  there's  some  one  living  here.  And  then  .... 
everybody  does  the  same  ....  they  are  all  glad 
when  the  lamp  is  lit  or  the  fire,  I  have  read,  and 
I  myself  ....  certainly  I'm  not  always  cheered 
by  it,  but  I  know  I  should  be  if  I  were  like  other 
people,  and  it's  pleasant  to  think  ....  that  the 
light  is  there.  And  then  there's  the  bird,  you  see; 
it  hops  and  hops  about,  and  when  I  play  it  wakes 
up  and  is  lively,  just  like  in  the  daytime." 

Christine  saw  it  peeping  out  with  Its  little  black, 
shining,  seed-like  eyes.  She  did  not  know  why  that 
should  be  so  sad  a  sight  here,  but  she  could  hardly 
keep  from  crying  out  in  sympathy. 

But  she  soon  felt  better,  for  Qvist  was  not  sad 
at  all.  On  the  contrary,  in  his  gentle  and  humble 
fashion  the  poor  fellow  was  delighted,  and  showed 


AMOR  31 

her  everything,  his  kitchen  utensils,  a  bead- 
embroidered  cushion,  which  was  so  funny  to  feel 
and  was  so  lovely,  he  had  heard,  with  quite  blue 
roses,  as  blue  as  the  sky  in  warm  weather,  and  red 
and  green  leaves — and  it  really  was  uncommonly 
pretty,  Christine  thought  also. 

He  chatted  merrily  about  his  work,  so  interest- 
ing sometimes,  when  there  were  more  difficult 
matters  to  work  out  and  combine  neatly,  and  about 
his  family,  which  was  not  really  his,  for  he  was 
a  foster-child,  but  which  had  been  very  kind  to 
him. 

Finally  at  Christine's  invitation  he  took  down 
his  whistle  and  began  to  play.  Oh,  how  merry  the 
tune  was,  how  light  and  free !  Christine  did  not 
know  what  it  was  called,  and  it  might  have  been 
pleasant  to  know,  but  she  would  not  interrupt  him, 
and  soon  forgot  all  about  it,  merely  listening  and 
watching  how  the  smile  flitted  about  his  mouth  and 
his  fingers  danced  and  his  eyes  danced  with  them, 
swimming  and  bright. 

So  very  happy  and  fresh  it  sounded !  It  saw, 
that  tune  of  his!  It  knew  everything,  it  ST\aing 
around  swiftly  and  surely,  caressing,  laughing, 
comforting  with  words  of  cheer.  She,  poor  crea- 
ture, knew  not  what  she  felt,  but  it  was  all  so 
gentle  and  pleasant,  and  everything  was  friendly, 
and  perhaps  there  was  nothing  stern  and  hard  in 
the  world,  everything  was  good  if  one  looked  at 


32  PER  HALLSTROM 

it  as  one  ought.  And  the  bird,  too,  began  to  chir- 
rup, such  a  funny  little  bird! 

The  room  was  really  quite  cosy,  like  a  box  over 
one's  head,  small  though  it  was  with  its  sloping 
roof.  She  said  not  a  word  as  long  as  he  was  able 
and  willing  to  play,  but  only  listened  with  delight, 
and  the  time  certainly  went  too  fast  for  his  clumsy 
old  silver  watch  on  the  wall  to  keep  up  with  it. 

At  last  the  music  became  as  it  were  troubled, 
uneasy.  He  broke  off  short,  and  his  hands  fumbled 
aimlessly.  Then  he  burst  out: 

Could  she  care  for  him,  would  she  marry  him, 
no  one  had  ever  loved  him,  they  could  manage  it 
with  a  little  help,  of  that  she  need  have  no  fear — 
would  she  care  for  him,  love  him,  poor  lonely 
fellow  as  he  was,  he  loved  her  so,  he  was  certain 
she  was  beautiful,  he  did  not  know  how  he  looked 
himself,  but  he  loved  her  so. 

It  came  so  unexpectedly  that  before  Christine 
knew  where  she  was  she  found  herself  plunged 
into  the  noisiest  tempest  of  tears.  She  could  not 
for  the  life  of  her  have  said  why,  whether  because 
it  was  sad  to  hear  this  question  from  a  blind  man, 
when  she  had  lived  so  long  past  the  time  for  such 
things  and  had  never  heard  it  before,  whether 
she  regretted  that  she  herself  was  not  young  and 
pretty  and  that  he  ...  .  Oh,  no,  it  was  not  that, 
not  that  at  all !  She  wept  because  she  felt  within 
her  breast  something  so  unusual,  so  disturbingly 


AMOR  33 

new,  and  could  not  tell  where  it  would  lead.  And 
she  had  really  no  other  experience  of  emotion  than 
sorrow,  could  not  find  any  expression  for  it  but 
tears ;  she  was  not  made  that  way.  But  she  was  not 
in  che  least  in  despair  and  did  ndt  really  mind  cry- 
ing, only  it  was  provoking  not  to  be  able  to  control 
it  but  to  have  to  simply  howl  as  she  was  doing,  so 
that  she  frightened  herself.  But  Qvist  was  abso- 
lutely terrified.  What  was  he  to  think,  poor  fel- 
low? So  at  last  she  had  to  stop. 

"Was  she  too  angry  with  him?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  The  tears  seemed  on  the  point 
of  breaking  out  again,  worse  than  ever.  "No, 
certainly  not!" 

"Did  she  think,  then  ....?"  He  turned  quite 
pale  and  stretched  out  his  hands  for  information. 

"Yes,  she  thought  .  .  .  ."  Ah,  those  poor  dear 
hands,  that  were  round  her  at  once! — "Yes,  in- 
deed, she  loved  him,  if  he  loved  her,  and  even  in 
any  case." — And  not  many  more  words  were 
spoken,  but  there  was  much  crying  and  laugh- 
ing too.  And  the  time,  the  time!  Oh,  that 
stupid  clock ! 

But  when  the  tears  were  at  last  convinced  of 
their  own  foolishness,  and  she  was  no  longer  any- 
thing but  happy,  she  became  embarrassed  again 
and  felt  much  as  if  she  had  had  on  a  wonderful  fine 
new  dress,  and  could  not  tell  how  it  suited  her.  She 
put  on  clumsy  school-girl  airs  and  was  not  a  little 


34  PER  HALLSTROM 

affected,  but  this  was  only  on  the  surface,  and  it 
did  not  matter,  for  Qvist  could  not  see  it. 

"Did  he  really  think  her  pretty?" 

"Yes,  wasn't  she?  So  good  and  kind  as  she  was? 
She  must  be  pretty." 

Pretty!  She  had  to  laugh  at  the  idea,  but  did 
so  very  quietly.  If  it  was  a  silly  notion  it  was  none 
the  less  a  pleasant  one,  and  certainly  she  would  be 
kind,  so  that  if  what  people  said  were  true,  she 
would  not  be  so  ugly,  either.  She  said,  therefore, 
somewhat  guardedly:  "I'm  not  pretty  at  all,  and 
I'm  not  young  either,  and  there  are  perhaps  dif- 
ferent tastes  about  that  as  about  everything  else, 
but  perhaps  you  wouldn't  think  me  disagreeable, 
if  you  could  see  me." 

"If  he  could  see?  No,  no,  he  was  sure  he 
shouldn't  think  that,  as  sure  as  he  was  of  any- 
thing." 

And  so  that  matter  was  dismissed. 

But  her  mistress  !  Was  it  not  wicked  to  think  of 
leaving  one  so  old,  when  God  had  given  her  such 
a  good  post  with  Mrs.  Asplund  and  had  so  obvi- 
ously fenced  her  round,  to  show  that  her  place 
was  there?  All  Christine's  joy  sank  down,  as 
though  it  had  dropped  out  of  her  hands  like  porce- 
lain and  fell  in  pieces  to  the  floor.  Oh,  dear! 
What  would  she  do  and  what  could  she  say  when 
her  mistress  pointed  out  her  black  ingratitude,  and 
how  would  everything  go  ? 


AMOR  35 

But  Qvist  objected  mildly  that  her  mistress 
could  get  another  servant,  and  maybe  it  was  as 
wicked  to  grieve  him  as  to  vex  Mrs.  Asplund,  per- 
haps he  was  just  as  lonely  and  helpless.  And  per- 
haps God  meant  one  to  be  a  little  happy,  too,  as 
far  as  one  could. 

This  reassured  Christine,  especially  the  excel- 
lent idea  about  the  new  servant,  and  they  man- 
aged to  find  plenty  to  talk  about  during  the  short 
time  that  was  left  before  she  had  to  go. 

As  he  came  downstairs  with  her,  she  realized 
well  enough  how  foolish  this  would  look  to  others, 
and  she  heard  the  censure  of  the  world,  clothed 
in  her  mistress'  deferential  voice;  but  it  never 
occurred  to  her  that  what  she  had  done  could  be 
undone,  and  she  regretted  nothing.  She  was  happy 
and  had  a  right  to  be  so,  since  she  did  not  get  in 
any  one's  way,  though  she  was  no  longer  young 
and  was  really,  when  she  thought  carefully  about 
it,  anything  but  handsome,  and  though  he  was 
blind  and  they  might  have  a  hard  enough  job  to 
make  ends  meet. 

And  she  would  like  to  see  any  one  who  would 
say  anything  bad  about  him  when  he  came  to  visit 
her,  even  if  it  were  Mrs.  Asplund  herself. 

However,  she  was  prudent  enough  not  to  wish 
to  run  the  risk  that  evening,  and  so  she  said  good- 
bye to  him  outside  the  door  and  went  in  to  meet 
Mrs.  Asplund's  now  chronic  mistrust.  And  this 


36  PER  HALLSTROM 

time  it  was  worse  than  ever,  for  Christine's  red 
face  was  not  of  the  kind  to  let  tears  come  and  go 
and  leave  no  traces,  so  that  her  mistress  was 
more  firmly  convinced  than  ever  that  the  innocent 
artilleryman  was  a  scoundrel  and  Christine  a  silly 
goose.  But  since  she  needed  Christine  and  hoped 
that  this  nuisance  would  soon  pass  over,  seeing 
that  it  was  a  person  of  mature  age  she  had  with 
her,  she  aired  her  convictions  in  much  the  same 
vaguely  menacing  words  as  usual,  and  grew  calmer 
when  Christine  nevertheless  remained  happy  and 
sensible,  and  went  to  rest  not  much  disturbed, 
except  for  this  rheumatism. 

She  suspected  nothing  of  that  which  threatened 
her  and  would  moreover  never  have  believed  in 
such  a  piece  of  folly.  Fortunately,  she  did  not 
happen  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

Out  there  the  blind  man  was  walking,  too  happy 
to  be  contained  beneath  his  sloping  roof,  with  the 
night  above  him  and  the  stars,  which  he  knew 
existed  up  there  and  were  so  lovely,  people  said. 
He  threw  back  his  head  that  he  might  turn  his 
radiant  face  and  his  dead  eyes  towards  the  window 
where  he  knew  there  was  a  light  burning  and  she 
who  lo^ed  him  was  looking  out — who  loved  him 
in  spite  of  all,  just  as  he  was,  and  dreamed  like 
him  about  the  wished-for  hour,  in  spite  of  all,  and 
however  it  might  look. 


CARNEOLA 

[ CARNEOLA \ 

FROM   PURPUR 

1895 


Carneola 

THIS  is  the  tale  of  how  Raymond  Lully 
became  the  man  whose  fame  was  spread 
throughout  Christendom  with  a  grandeur  that 
made  men  marvel,  the  hermit  to  whom  travelers 
came  from  far,  asking  of  him  advice  to  heal  the 
wounds  of  their  souls — and  they  stood  there 
amazed  beneath  the  death-like  calm  of  his  eyes, 
half  trembling  at  the  dimly  divined  riddle  of  his 
being,  half  pitying — contemptuously  pitying — his 
voluntary  poverty.  This  is  the  tale  as  it  painted 
itself  to  Raymond  in  the  waking  visions  of  the 
night,  ere  he  had  lived  many  years  as  a  hermit, 
the  tale  as  it  burned  on  the  not  yet  extinguished 
pyre  of  suffering,  with  the  color  of  roses  caught 
by  flame,  with  an  odor  of  incense  and  black  earth, 
with  a  sound  of  weeping  and  deep,  panting  words, 
and  behind  it  all  the  steel-blue  cold  and  the  star- 
spangled  spaces  of  heaven.  It  is  also  the  tale  of 
a  woman. 

Carneola  was  her  name,  and  the  glance  of  her 
eyes  had  in  it  something  of  dark  butterflies  flitting 
over  colored  joy;  her  lips,  when  she  ceased  to 
speak,  never  closed  entirely,  but  quivered  as  over 
some  word  held  back,  a  word  that  would  have 
turned  laughter  into  weeping;  her  slender  hands 

39 


40  PER  HALLSTROM 

she  was  wont  to  keep  folded  and  at  rest,  and  they 
shone  bluish  white  against  the  purple  velvet  on 
her  bosom. 

She  wore  a  dress  with  the  underslip  fitting  close 
to  her  finely  curved  neck,  though  such  was  no 
longer  the  custom;  the  outer  part  left  her  sides 
free,  with  the  graceful  lines  of  waist  and  hips,  and 
was  caught  over  her  breast  by  a  brooch  with  a  red 
stone  in  it,  which  sparkled  in  the  light  like  a  drop 
of  blood  from  the  Holy  Grail.  Over  her  head  she 
wore  a  dark  kerchief,  striped  with  gold,  glistening 
where  the  coiled  hair  raised  its  arch,  and  stealing 
away  in  folds  close  to  her  cheek. 

Round  about  her  shone  and  smiled  the  sunniest 
mirth  of  the  little  kingdom  of  Majorca — mirth 
that  stared  idly  at  the  blue  heavens  through  trees 
whose  leafy  tops  seemed  still  to  bear  the  impress 
of  the  inviting  gesture  made  by  the  Creator's  hand, 
or  that  drowsed  peacefully  within  high  garden 
walls,  so  white  and  warm  with  sunshine  that  the 
wind,  circling  too  near  them,  was  whirled  up  and 
scattered  like  smoke  over  the  flowering  runners 
on  the  coping.  Behind,  the  round  towers  of  the 
palace  stretched  forth  their  watchful  heads  with 
the  pointed  caps  upon  them,  looking  out  over 
the  light  blue  satin  of  the  sea ;  but  otherwise  it  was 
an  angular  medley  of  decorated  doors  and  cor- 
nices that  took  on  the  color  of  old  gold  in  the 
mid-day  sunshine,  a  palace  such  as  some  giant's 


CARNEOLA  41 

child  might  have  built  of  shells  and  glittering  frag- 
ments, as  he  played  by  the  seashore. 

And  they  played  inside  that  building.  The  music 
of  zithers  clung  like  a  ring  of  bursting  bubbles 
about  heads  that  were  ever  bending  together  in 
merriment  and  whispered  confidences.  The  golden 
balls  of  the  jugglers  seemed  the  proper  measures 
of  the  time,  as  they  rose  and  fell  and  were  tossed 
up  again  by  dextrous  hands.  When  the  wind  some- 
times increased  in  strength  and  pressed  his  puffing 
lips  against  the  walls,  it  was  only  in  playful  men- 
ace, as  though  to  warn  them:  Stay  in  there,  chil- 
dren, warm  yourselves  In  one  another's  looks, 
press  each  other's  hands  and  stay!  Stay  In  there! 

There  was  no  foe  to  war  against  on  the  islands, 
nor  any  game  to  hunt.  Yet  they  must  have  their 
falcons  like  other  folk,  and  so  they  taught  the 
birds  to  strike  at  bats  that  had  been  frightened 
from  their  crannies  and  that  darted  forward, 
blinded  by  the  light,  with  turns  as  sharp  as  the 
curve  of  a  whip;  or  they  let  out  pigeons  and  took 
pleasure  In  seeing  their  pink  feet  pressed  close  to 
their  bodies,  the  soft  wings  as  they  caressed  the 
air,  and  the  blue  shadows  on  the  ground  when  the 
birds  sought  the  shelter  of  the  aviaries.  Or  else 
they  suffered  themselves  to  be  snared  In  the  toils 
of  love,  and  enmeshed  in  flying  or  captured 
dreams.  In  alternating  little  griefs  and  triumphs, 
just  as  they  also  delighted  In  the  artfully  Inter- 


42  PER  HALLSTROM 

woven  rhymes  of  their  songs,  with  here  and  there 
a  note  of  pleasant  melancholy. 

And  so  one  night  Raymond  became  enamored 
of  Carneola,  having  grown  weary  of  his  latest 
mistress'  walk.  It  was  a  thought  too  bustling  and 
too  heavy,  and  never  could  her  figure  show  that 
repose  of  line  which  can  unite  the  expectant  joy 
of  the  whole  landscape  into  one  image,  carving 
it  against  a  gold-streaked  sky  under  the  careless 
folds  of  the  d-ress. 

But  Carneola  stood  just  so,  leaning  against  the 
balusters  of  a  staircase;  where  Raymond  sat,  a 
little  distance  from  her  foot,  he  saw  her  cheek 
with  its  amber-colored  shadows  and  the  lovely  fall 
of  the  kerchief  standing  out  sharply  against  the 
margin  of  an  orange  sunset,  fading  into  icy  green, 
and  he  could  not  comprehend  how  he  had  ever 
desired  to  look  on  aught  but  that  dark  veil,  in 
which  the  golden  threads  gleamed  dully,  like  the 
edge  of  a  velvet  butterfly. 

Dark  butterflies — now  he  understood  the  ex- 
pression in  her  glance.  Was  it  longing?  No,  it  was 
too  deep  for  longing.  Was  it  sorrow?  She  had 
never  murmured.  Could  it  be  perchance  but  a  sense 
of  loneliness,  and  the  knowledge  that  among  all 
this  crowd  of  light-winged  beings  there  was  none 
whose  soul  could  keep  even  flight  with  hers  out 
over  the  purple  sea  of  passion?  But  Raymond 
could  do  so.  It  was  but  for  an  hour  that  he  had 


CARNEOLA  43 

joined  the  others  at  their  sport:  in  his  youth  and 
newly  won  freedom  from  his  books  it  had  amused 
him  to  dance  and  feel  the  bonds  fluttering  about 
him.  But  there  was  other  stuff  in  him,  and  now 
he  clenched  his  fist  and  pressed  it  to  the  warm 
earth,  and  vowed  that  with  that  woman  he  would 
gaze  upon  the  farthest  horizon  of  delight. 

She  was  young,  though  her  husband  had  been 
dead  several  years,  and  none  could  understand 
why  she  still  wore  her  widow's  veil,  for  she  could 
not  have  loved  him  so  deeply.  Nor  could  any  one 
explain  the  coyness  of  her  eyes,  for  where  the 
laughter  was  merriest  and  all  was  at  its  gayest 
there  she  too  was  drawn,  there  her  hand  beck- 
oned, and  her  voice  was  heard,  but  with  a  fragile 
cadence,  as  though  her  inward  ear  were  listening 
for  its  echo.  "She  tries  to  strangle  her  conscience 
with  silken  bands,"  said  some, — but  what,  then, 
could  have  set  her  conscience  at  strife?  At  the 
confessional  the  priest's  blessing  followed  as 
closely  upon  the  rustle  of  her  garments  when  she 
knelt  as  the  myrtle-branch  recovers  from  the  buf- 
fet of  the  wind,  and  none  had  ever  seen  a  guilty 
blush  upon  her  cheek  or  envy  trembling  about  her 
mouth. 

Raymond  thought  that  he  had  guessed  the  rid- 
dle. Love  it  was  that  she  was  listening  for.  Love 
the  mighty,  the  ascending  flight  of  two  twin  beings 
through  an  ever  brighter,  purer  atmosphere — and 


44  PER  HALLSTROM 

none  could  say  whose  wings  it  was  that  bore  them 
at  this  moment  or  at  that — the  drink,  of  two  red 
mouths  dipped  side  by  side  into  the  spacious  cup 
of  joy.  And  he  offered  her  his  faith,  his  strength: 
it  was  not  unattainably  far,  that  she  sought — 
seated  close  by  her  he  said  it,  with  his  cheek  touch- 
ing her  dark  veil. 

"Love  is  the  miracle,"  said  he;  "only  have  faith, 
and  there  he  stands  in  his  unfathomable  greatness, 
bending  over  your  head.  Have  faith  only,  and  your 
foot  shall  float  still  more  lightly  than  now,  for  the 
wings  are  there  already,  folded  up  in  that  little 
pointed  shoe.  Only  have  faith,  and  all  that  you 
require  in  a  man  will  blossom  forth  in  me;  already 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  the  palms  above  us." 

She  raised  her  folded  hands  a  little,  so  that  the 
fingers  touched  the  clasp  at  her  breast,  and  gently 
shook  her  head.  "But  Death  is  there,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"And  is  that  so  sure?  For  us,  as  we  are  now? 
Nay,  there  is  no  Death.  We  know  nought  of  him. 
If  we  love.  Death  cannot  be,  for  then  we  know 
that  death  and  pain  lie  deep  beneath  our  feet,  as 
far  removed  as  a  broken  dream,  within  the  ring 
of  time,  in  that  world  which  is  not  the  real  world." 

Then  Carneola's  eyes  flashed,  and  the  red  stone 
of  her  brooch  threw  a  gleam  upon  her  hand;  it 
was  as  though  her  soul  was  filled  with  the  clear- 
ness of  the  mystery,  even  as  the  darkness  is  tremu- 


CARNEOLA  45 

lously  filled  by  the  lightning  flash.  But  anon  the 
light  vanished,  and  her  fingers  closed  tight  and 
painfully,  as  one  in  despair  may  close  them. 

"I  believed  just  now  in  the  miracle,"  she  whis- 
pered, "but  my  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  wounds 
and  not  the  halo,  and  now  I  only  see  that  they  are 
real." 

Raymond  dared  not  catch  her  hand  to  him, 
although  with  mingled  pain  and  exultation  he  felt 
that  she  was  his,  that  she  believed  in  him  if  not  in 
love,  or  that  it  was  her  very  love  that  made  her 
suffer  more.  He  could  not  grieve  thereat,  but  he 
scanned  her  thoughts,  scanned  them  impatiently 
yet  sure  of  victory,  and  every  morning  the  sun 
was  shining  on  his  pillow  ere  he  slept,  slept  happy, 
with  the  great  eventful  day  before  him. 

One  night  there  was  feasting  at  the  palace,  and 
they  danced  the  torch  dance. 

The  music  was  placed  in  darkness,  and  It  was 
as  though  its  tones  took  bodily  shape  and  fluttered 
in  among  the  gleams  from  the  swinging  lights.  The 
halting  joy  of  the  violins,  the  wide  wing-beats  of 
the  horns,  the  enticing  melancholy  of  the  flutes, 
and  the  drum's  gruff  exhortation  all  seemed  to 
have  hastened  in  among  the  tortuous  ranks  of  the 
dancers  and  to  have  cried:  "Fly,  oh,  fly!  See,  ever 
the  draught  doth  choke  the  flame!  This  world  is 
for  time  and  change,  for  pain  and  longing,  but 
we  raise  the  curtain  to  another,  the  world  of  Love. 


46  PER  HALLSTROM 

Fly,  oh,  fly  with  us!"  Not  long  before,  there  had 
been  as  much  light  as  a  hundred  wax  candles  could 
bear  upon  their  heads,  but  now  there  were  only 
flickering  gleams  of  red  upon  crimson  cheeks, 
lengthening  shadows  on  dilated  pupils.  Raymond 
and  Carneola  clasped  hands  tight  at  every  meet- 
ing and  loosed  their  grasp  almost  in  fear,  and 
their  hearts  were  lighter  than  ever,  for  they  felt 
that  the  dance  was  teaching  them  wisdom,  driving 
away  all  obstructing  thoughts,  and  folding  them 
together  like  frightened  children,  that  they  might 
afterwards  meet  the  light  with  wide  awake  and 
smiling  eyes. 

Ere  the  music  had  yet  sunk  to  rest,  and  as  men 
began  to  bring  in  the  lights,  Carneola  whispered 
in  reply  to  Raymond's  question:  "Yea,  take  me! 
Never  more  to  part!  Let  us  fly  from  here!"  In 
the  brightening  light  he  saw  her  eyes  shine  with 
joy,  her  mouth  tremble  with  expectation;  she 
seemed  raised  aloft  by  exultation,  yet  with  despair 
still  hanging  heavy  at  her  foot. 

He  left  her  and  wandered  through  corridors 
and  chambers  with  his  blood  dancing  in  time  to 
the  renewed  strains  of  the  music  and  an  expanse 
of  flaming  light  within  his  breast — then  his  sharp 
ear  distinguished  her  step  upon  the  stairs,  and  he 
caught  her  up  when  she  had  reached  her  chamber. 
There  was  a  prie-dieu  there  with  an  image,  and 
the  light  of  a  lamp  shone  over  the  red  folds  of 


CARNEOLA  47 

her  skirt;  otherwise  there  was  no  light  save  that 
of  the  moonbeams  shining  coldly  through  the  col- 
ored glass  of  the  window.  He  laid  his  forehead 
upon  Carneola's  knee  and  gave  utterance  to  his 
ecstatic  thoughts:  "The  miracle,  the  miracle!" — 
He  pressed  her  hands  against  his  eyes  and  reached 
up  his  arms,  so  that  they  enwrapped  her  slender 
form. — "Now  your  doubts  are  all  hidden,  shut 
away!" 

Carneola  inclined  her  mouth  close  to  his  hair. — 
"Yea,  and  even  though  Death  were  near  us  ...  . 
Are  you  sure  of  your  miracle  ?" 

Raymond  lifted  his  eyes  and  shuddered  at  her 
questioning  tone,  but  her  love  streamed  down 
upon  him  with  intoxicating  force. 

"Yea,"  said  he  firmly,  "Love  is  all,  the  other  is 
illusion.  Love  is  joy,  the  same  arm  embracing 
both.  The  other  stands  outside,  and  never  can 
come  in." 

Carneola  pressed  upon  his  forehead  a  kiss  so 
hot  that  it  burned  like  fever,  then  freed  herself, 
rose  tottering,  and  took  a  few  steps  forward  to- 
wards the  lamp.  Her  thoughts  were  strung  to  the 
point  of  delirium ;  she  sang  to  the  music  which  still 
danced  alluringly  in  the  distance.  Then  she  broke 
ofE  with  half  incomprehensible  words,  while  her 
hands  rose  white  and  trembling  to  her  breast,  and 
she  unclasped  the  brooch  with  the  red  stone,  which 
glistened  like  a  blood-drop  as  it  fell. 


48  PER  HALLSTROM 

"I  believe,  I  believe  in  the  miracle." — Her  voice 
sounded  thin,  like  the  ringing  of  thin  glass.  She 
folded  back,  the  dress  from  her  shapely  curved 
neck,  turned  it  back  from  her  breast,  and  glanced 
downwards,  as  though  expecting  to  see  some  in- 
effable, infinite  deliverance.  Then  her  face  sud- 
denly hardened  in  the  desolation  of  despair,  with 
the  eyes  gazing  into  remoteness  and  deep  with  the 
very  depths  of  sorrow. 

"See,"  she  said — and  Raymond  saw,  saw  some- 
thing frightful,  corroding — "see  what  I  bear!" 

Raymond  felt  his  head  a  blank,  like  the  depths 
beneath  his  feet;  grief,  terror,  infinite  bitterness, 
and  a  sickening  feeling  of  loathing  made  his  brain 
whirl,  but  yet  he  heard  her  continue: 

"I  saw  it  coming  years  ago.  I  have  cradled 
Death  in  my  bosom.  I  would  fain  have  cast  him 
out  and  fled  from  him.  I  have  prayed  to  God  for 
miracles;  I  have  tried  to  forget  it  out  there;  I 
have  played,  and  I  have  laughed.  It  eat  deeper 
and  deeper  in :  constantly  I  felt  it,  ever  saw  it 
there.  I  loved  you,  love  you  still.  I  believed — I 
did  not  know — I  felt  it  just  now  as  a  miracle.  God 
is  love,  they  say,  and  I  thought — do  you  still  be- 
lieve in  miracles,  Raymond?" 

Raymond  bent  his  head.  He  felt  the  tears  op- 
press him,  tears  and  pity,  and  therewith  something 
terribly  cold. 

"Our  God  is  the  God  of  afflictions,  Carneola." 


CARNEOLA  49 

She  spoke  with  the  despairing  wail  of  a  child 
that  fears  the  dark. 

"I  have  known  it,  known  it  always,  but  it  has 
frightened  me,  and  I  have  fled  from  Him.  I  have 
frolicked  like  the  others,  and  I  have  spoken  with 
their  words.  I  have  believed  them  in  my  sleep — 
the  whole  has  been  a  dream.  This  is  the  reality. 
Have  not  you  a  sore  like  this?  Do  not  they  all 
bear  one,  and  is  not  that  why  they  play  music  as 
they  do?  Hark!  What  weeping  at  the  doors!" 

Raymond  dared  not  look  up.  He  wept  for  all 
things,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  in  weeping  for  her; 
she  was  too  great  for  him  to  behold.  Then  she 
came  close  to  him  and  moaned  like  a  starving 
woman: 

"Can  you  stay  with  me  nevertheless,  can  you 
love  me?  I  have  yearned  for  your  love.  I  shall  not 
die  yet.  The  loneliness  makes  me  fear,  and  I  was 
so  happy  but  now.  Without  love  I  cannot  live." 

But  Raymond  felt  the  emotion  that  had  lately 
filled  him  to  be  so  little  now,  so  trampled  under 
the  foot  of  the  inevitable,  that,  even  had  he  been 
able,  he  would  have  had  no  wish  to  raise  it.  As 
a  boy,  when  he  had  found  wounded  birds,  he  had 
felt  just  so,  though  not  so  strongly.  He  had  not 
wished  to  look  at  them,  but  had  hastened  to  give 
them  their  death  blow. 

"I  can  weep  with  you,"  he  said  gently. 

Like  cold  steel  laid  against  an  aching  forehead, 


50  PER  HALLSTROM 

his  accents  brought  her  to  herself.  She  covered 
her  bosom  and  went  towards  the  door,  beckoning 
him  to  follow. 

"Farewell,"  she  said,  with  something  of  her 
wonted  proud  beauty  in  the  gesture  with  which 
she  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  her  eyes  drew 
his  gaze  Into  dark  expanses,  greater  than  he  had 
ever  guessed  at. 

From  outside  the  music  floated  in  to  meet  them. 
They  smiled  mournfully  upon  each  other,  and 
thus  it  was,  with  that  smile  about  the  quivering 
of  her  mouth  and  the  dark  butterflies  of  her  look 
drowning  in  a  sea  of  sorrow,  that  Carneola's  image 
came  before  Raymond's  eyes  every  time  her  name 
was  mentioned,  every  time  he  thought  upon  a 
woman. 

:(:  :|:  :(:  *  *  * 

He  never  saw  her  more,  never  inquired  about 
her  fate;  that  same  night  he  left  behind  him  the 
dully  gleaming  lights  of  Majorca  and  held 
his  course  towards  the  steel-blue  void  of  sea 
and  sky. 

He  understood  all,  he  had  seen  through  the 
deceitfulness  of  joy  and  beauty,  he  had  tried  to 
caress  life,  and  she  had  faded  like  a  shadow  in  his 
grasp,  but  great  and  endless  was  the  pain. 

It  was  Truth  alone,  the  voice  of  the  Godhead, 
that  did  not  lie — and  lo  !  was  it  not  but  terror  from 
men's  fables  and  traditions  that  had  caused  her  to 


CARNEOLA  51 

be   shunned?    Did   she   not  bear   about   her   the 
beauty  of  the  open  spaces? 

Pain,  that  was  the  drop  sprinkled  upon  Nature's 
breast,  to  accustom  the  wailing  child  to  snatch  his 
mouth  away,  that  he  might  eagerly  receive  the 
food  of  the  soul  and  grow  strong  for  the  life  of 
eternity. 

Vain  was  it  to  grope  for  love  or  pity  here  below, 
to  turn  the  inquiring  cry  of  the  human  heart  into 
the  promise  of  divinity.  When  the  fledgeling 
stretches  his  downy  head  over  the  edge  of  the  nest, 
and  sees,  below  the  blue  vault  which  hitherto  has 
been  his  only  world,  an  earth  lying  blazing  in  the 
sunlight,  he  knows  not  that  at  that  moment  there 
is  breaking  from  its  shell  the  hawk  which  shall 
grow  strong  and  wild  beneath  its  mother's  speckled 
breast,  and  shall  one  day  silence  the  chirp  of 
terror  in  his  throat. 

When  the  youth,  from  the  dreams  and  pure  air 
of  boyhood's  world,  looks  down  upon  life  that 
tempts  him,  already  the  disaster  is  in  motion  which 
shall  meet  his  forehead  like  a  stone  from  a  sling. 
For  infinitely  far  back  goes  the  chain  of  events, 
from  the  limits  of  time  the  dark  threads  of  sorrow 
wind  in  and  out  of  all  the  motley  patterns  woven 
by  the  hands  of  Fate,  and  from  the  beginning  of 
all  it  has  been  determined  where  and  how  they 
are  to  meet. 

But  outside  all  is  God,  is  Truth,  where  all  desire 


52  PER  HALLSTROM 

and  hope  are  quenched  as  sparks  are  quenched 
within  the  ocean,  and  the  soul  is  conscious  only  of 
itself,  for  its  greatness  embraces  the  universe. 

So  Raymond  passed  within  the  cloister  walls 
and  turned  to  books  and  to  the  converse  of  holy 
men,  if  haply  he  might  find  whether  there  was  any 
other  that  understood  this,  and  he  found  eyes 
that  sometimes  sounded  the  depths  of  the  calm 
which  he  was  seeking,  and  words  that  seemed  to 
resemble  scattered  echoes  of  his  thoughts;  but  he 
shunned  the  churches  that  raised  to  heaven  vaults 
as  of  upstretched  arms  and  their  hymns  hot  with 
desire. 

And  Raymond  spoke  few  words,  but  his  hand 
was  ever  ready  to  act;  he  never  prayed,  but  all 
men  knew  that  he  was  near  God. 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY 

[EN  SIMPEL   TRAGEDI] 


FROM  THANATOS 
1900 


A  Humble  Uragedy 

IT  WAS  In  the  fore-cabin  of  a  small  steamboat, 
a  tiny  little  room  which,  as  though  in  an  attempt 
at  perspective,  narrowed  rapidly  towards  the 
stewardess'  little  box,  and  thus  caused  her  pale, 
fat  features,  filling  the  background,  to  assume 
gigantic  proportions  and  dominate  the  whole.  The 
cabin  was  also  dominated  by  the  warm  smell  of 
a  huge  beefsteak  in  the  middle  of  one  of  the  long 
tables. 

Behind  the  steak,  compressed  in  pleasant  ease 
between  it  and  the  cabin  wall,  sat  a  man  of  tanned 
and  weather-beaten  countenance,  with  a  light 
beard,  and  a  brown  jersey  underneath  his  but- 
toned jacket.  He  ate  with  slow  conviction,  sipping 
his  glass  of  stout  from  time  to  time  with  evident 
enjoyment.  He  had  previously  opened  the  pro- 
ceedings no  less  appreciatively  by  a  dram,  but  had 
prudently  stopped  at  one,  and  now  sat  in  an  agree- 
able glow  watching  the  decanter  as  it  passed  over 
to  a  couple  of  men  on  the  opposite  table,  who 
could  not  afford  a  dinner,  but  by  repeated  doses 
were  cheating  their  hunger  in  a  fashion  whose 
consequences  were  easy  to  foresee. 

The  man's  name  was  Janson,  and  so  he  was 
addressed  by  all  who  knew  him.   Of  course   he 

55 


56  PER  HALLSTROM 

had  a  Christian  name,  too;  there  were  even  four 
of  them  to  be  found  upon  his  birth  certificate,  and 
these,  in  earher  days,  he  was  accustomed  to  repeat 
upon  request,  together  with  his  age  and  the  year 
upon  which  he  was  entering.  At  that  time  people 
called  him  by  the  first  of  these  names,  In  conven- 
tional style.  But  he  was  now  a  man  of  thirty,  Inde- 
pendent, and  even — thanks  to  his  own  efforts — 
quite  well-to-do;  his  mother  was  dead  and  honor- 
ably buried — so  that  he  ran  no  risk  of  ever  being 
called  anything  but  Janson,  possibly  with  a  more 
and  more  definite  "Mr."  to  look  forward  to. 

Janson  had  reason  to-day  for  feeling  more  than 
usually  well  pleased  with  himself  and  almost  every- 
thing. He  had  disposed  of  a  load  of  hay,  bought 
as  a  speculation,  and  had  done  his  business  like 
a  man.  He  had  not  been  able  to  avoid  being 
impressed  by  his  new  acquaintances,  the  Imposing 
head  grooms,  whose  broad-backed  and  corpulent 
dignity  was  already  beginning  to  be  reflected  In 
his  own  bearing,  but  he  had  none  the  less  defended 
his  interests  against  them  and  was  therefore  neces- 
sarily Impressed  by  his  own  cleverness  also.  He 
could  not  help  building  castles  In  the  air  as  he 
sat,  based  on  simple  calculations  with  the  aid  of 
his  fingers,  and  this  made  the  food  taste  still  better 
and  drove  the  blood  to  his  head,  so  that  his 
thoughts  became  more  bold  than  usual,  and  took 
on  an  almost  disturbingly  rapid  motion.  This  re- 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  57 

vealed  itself  partly  in  a  humorous  view  of  things 
about  him,  partly  in  a  sense  of  power  and  self- 
confidence  which  filled  out  his  jersey  and  made 
his  own  person  a  proportionately  worthier  object 
of  contemplation.  The  comfort  and  elegance  of 
the  room,  with  its  odor  of  food,  took  on  a  height- 
ened value  from  the  sound  of  the  ice  striking 
against  the  iron  sides  of  the  boat  in  the  current, 
and  from  the  foggy  daylight  that  came  in  through 
the  tiny  round  windows  from  the  December  cold 
and  dampness  outside. 

He  sat  looking  in  friendly  fashion  at  his  two 
fellow-passengers  opposite:  they  could  not  fail  to 
inspire  a  sensible  man  with  mild  compassion.  They 
were  two  young  workmen,  painters  no  doubt,  to 
judge  by  their  curly  hair.  It  was  clear  that  their 
prospects  for  the  night  in  front  of  them  were  none 
too  rosy;  they  would  not  be  admitted  into  any 
room,  but  would  have  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  the 
wronged  and  the  despairing  in  some  outhouse, 
supposing  that  they  reached  their  destination  at 
all.  His  own  anticipations  were  very  pleasant. 
Not  only  warmth  and  good  cheer  to  be  genteelly 
enjoyed,  but  also  a  little  part  to  play,  a  seller 
deliberately  to  impose  upon  and  render  humble 
for  the  self-contemplation  of  the  night  and  the 
business  to  follow  in  the  morning. 

The  waitress  also  afforded  material  for  dreams. 
Her  name  was  Marie,   and  Janson  thought  her 


58  PER  HALLSTROM 

very  pleasing,  though  not  quite  as  much  so  now  as 
in  the  days  when  all  thought  of  anything  but  a  shy 
pleasantry,  received  at  the  best  without  reproof, 
was  quite  out  of  the  question  between  him  and  a 
lady  of  her  class.  She  had  a  stumpy  figure,  a  round 
little  body,  full  bosom,  and  a  pale  in-doors  com- 
plexion, all  of  which  were  to  his  taste  with  the 
possible  exception  of  the  paleness,  but  this,  too, 
he  regarded  in  his  altered  circumstances  as  some- 
thing to  be  appreciated  as  a  sign  of  luxury  and 
refinement,  just  as  he  himself  ought  now  to  prefer 
cigars  to  plug.  Her  faculties  had  been  developed 
by  her  calling  in  two  directions,  mental  arithmetic 
and  repartee,  and  her  somewhat  tired  face  had 
thus  assumed  an  expression  of  self-command  and 
knowledge  of  the  world,  beneath  which  could  be 
suspected  character  and  the  power  to  unbend  in 
hours  of  recreation.  Janson  could  not  dream  of 
marriage  with  her,  even  if  his  affections  had  not 
already  been  engaged,  as  he  reminded  himself  in 
this  connection — certainly  not,  but  there  might 
be  a  brief  and  slightly  loose  flirtation,  not  involv- 
ing too  much,  half  pleasure  and  half  duty  towards 
himself,  with  some  of  his  youth  still  left  and  his 
bright  prospects.  He  made  preparations  by  pulling 
at  his  beard  as  he  watched  the  girl's  busy  move- 
ments, but  his  thoughts  could  not  succeed  in  fol- 
lowing and  slowly  occupied  themselves  with  the 
penchant  already  mentioned. 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  cg 


Jy 


This  was  for  a  country  girl  named  Augusta,  not 
exactly  what  would  be  called  a  peasant  girl,  the 
daughter  of  parents  well-to-do,  solid,  and  re- 
spected. She  had  left  home,  though  there  was  no 
need  for  her  to  do  so,  with  a  twofold  end  in  view — 
to  gain  a  living  and  at  the  same  time  further  train- 
ing as  a  dressmaker.  Janson  had  known  her  for 
several  years,  respected  her  highly,  admired  her 
good  sense  and  character  and  the  clothes  she  made 
for  herself,  and  was  attracted  by  all  this  and  other 
things,  so  that  he  could  think  calmly  but  warmly 
of  a  life  spent  at  her  side.  He  remembered  now 
that  the  boat  would  have  to  pass  her  father's 
landing-stage,  but  on  further  consideration  he  saw 
but  little  likelihood  that  Augusta  would  be  there 
or  would  have  left  for  the  country  at  all.  Still  less 
could  he  dwell  upon  the  pleasant  possibility  that 
she  might  be  on  the  boat  going  home.  Certainly 
they  had  not  put  off  yet,  and  he  still  heard  people 
walking  on  the  gangway  over  his  head,  but  at  this 
season  she  would  no  doubt  be  staying  in  Stockholm. 

The  two  journeymen  painters  were  curious  fel- 
lows to  look  at  and  listen  to,  as  he  sat  there  after 
dinner  in  a  position  slightly  raised  above  them. 
With  their  uncombed  hair  and  spotted  clothes  they 
resembled  tramps.  They  had  no  control  over  their 
bodies;  they  looked  shy  and  found  their  surround- 
ings too  elegant.  But  they  now  began  to  be  so 
merry  that  intimate  conversation  was  no  longer 


6o  PER  HALLSTROM 

an  adequate  means  of  expression  for  them.  This 
was  their  first  meeting,  and  they  were  to  work 
together;  for  two  young  and  enthusiastic  natures 
thus  discovering  one  another  life  readily  took  on 
the  form  of  song — tenor,  of  course,  as  suited  their 
profession  and  their  curly  hair. 

They  began  very  softly,  and  so  far  back  in  their 
throats  that  most  of  the  sound  could  get  no  fur- 
ther: "And  ne'er  can  we  know — Brighter  days 
here  below — Than  those  which  we  live  in  the 
spring-tide  of  youth." 

The  stewardess  coughed  sharply,  and  the  wait- 
ress pierced  them  with  a  look,  but  they  knew 
nothing  of  it  as  they  sought  the  depths  of  each 
other's  eyes. 

"What's  yer  name  ?"  asked  one  of  them ;  "Chris- 
tian name,  I  mean." 

"Johan  Mauritz  Evald." 

"I'll  call  you  Evald,  then.  Evald,  we're  going 
to  be  together." 

"Well,  of  course  I  was  christened  Evald,  too, 
but  me  real  name's  John." 

"That's  all  the  same  to  me.  Evald,  I'm  going  to 
call  you.  You're  a  good  sort,  Evald;  we're  going 
to  be  together.  You  know  me,  Evald;  'scuse  my 
askin',  don't  you  like  me  just  a  bit?  My  name's 
Charles." 

"A  bit!  More'n  a  bit — no  one  could  help  it. 
How  can  you  ask  that,  Charlie?" 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  6i 

Charles  was  deeply  touched. 

"It's  a  fine  thing  when  people  have  tact  and 
show  themselves  friendly,"  said  he.  "B —  rare 
thing,  too." 

"Got  a  family,  Evald?" 

"How  d'ye  mean?  If  I'm  married?" 

"Oh,  no — mother  and  dad,  or  only  mother,  I 
mean.  I've  got  nobody,  never  have  had."  He  bent 
forwards  and  drew  with  his  finger  on  the  table, 
in  a  kind  of  confused  idea  about  a  family  tree. 

Evald  hesitated. 

"Mine's  alive,"  he  said,  "for  all  I  know;  at 
least  she  was  last  Christmas,  when  she  broke  her 
arm.  But  I  ha'n't  heard  anything  since." 

"You're  a  lucky  chap  to  have  some  one,  Evald. 
Shake  hands !"  Evald  did  so,  with  emotion. 

"Yes,  perhaps  you're  right  there,"  said  he.  "Of 
course  I'm  lucky." 

But  his  comrade  clutched  his  fingers  convul- 
sively. 

"You,  Evald,  you  know  me;  you  know  how  I 
am.  I've  got  a  heart,  but  nobody  cares  about  me, 
no  young  women,  nobody  at  all." 

Evald  cared  about  him,  and  tried  to  make  that 
clear. 

"Yes,  of  course,  you're  my  oldest  and  very  best 
friend;  but  d'you  think,  for  instance,  that  she  over 
there  .  .  .  .  ?"  He  meant  the  waitress.  Evald 
thought  it  not  impossible.  "Try,"  he  said,  "try!" 


62  PER  HALLSTROM 

The  drunken  man  stretched  out  his  arm  and 
caught  the  girl  by  the  waist  just  as  she  went  by. 
The  face  he  turned  up  to  her  bore  in  its  confusion 
an  expression  of  helpless  weakness,  unqualified 
adoration,  and  shy  delight  that  should  have  soft- 
ened a  stone. 

"Marly,"  he  said,  with  thickly  blended  r-  and 
1-sounds,  "Marly!" 

But  Marie  was  doubly  insulted  that  this  scene 
should  take  place  in  the  respectable  presence  of 
a  third  person,  and  she  tore  herself  away  so  vio- 
lently that  she  almost  pulled  him  off  his  chair. 
With  a  stranger  close  by !  No  m.ore  was  needed 
to  sink  both  the  friends  into  the  depths  of  despair, 
with  their  looks  hanging  upon  each  other's,  and 
the  cruel  world  left  to  look  after  Itself  behind 
their  forsaken  shoulders. 

Janson  watched  them  with  a  pleasant  feeling 
that  he  was  the  protector  of  these  foolish  wan- 
derers, and  would  let  them  work  for  him  when  he 
built  himself  a  house  and  set  up  his  own  home — and 
meanwhile  he  digested  his  dinner  and  once  more 
turned  over  In  his  mind  the  wealth  of  ideas  that 
had  come  before  him.  Between  himself  and  the 
girl  there  quite  naturally  arose  a  common  feeling 
of  superiority  before  these  poor  wretches;  they 
smiled  at  one  another  and  exchanged  a  few  jesting 
words,  and  Janson  could  not  but  feel  his  satisfac- 
tion redoubled  by  the  envy,  subdued  by  admiration, 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  63 

which  stole  towards  him  from  the  two  whom  none 
regarded. 

Then  he  heard  a  trampling  of  many  feet  right 
above  his  head.  He  concluded  that  some  heavy 
object  was  being  brought  on  board,  and  inter- 
rupted his  thoughts  to  wonder  vaguely  what  it 
might  be.  A  threshing-mill?  No,  it  was  too  late 
in  the  year.  A  piano  ?  Probably  not,  for  who  would 
have  it,  now  that  no  gentlemen's  families  lived 
out  of  town  any  longer?  It  was  some  long  object 
anyhow,  to  judge  by  the  trampling,  and  certainly 
something  fragile,  too.  He  wondered  if  he  ought 
to  have  a  piano,  in  case  he  married — a  second- 
hand one,  not  too  dear — and  whether  it  was  pos- 
sible that  Augusta  might  find  time  and  ability  to 
learn  to  play  on  it,  and  by  this  means  he  was  drawn 
away  from  his  questioning.  The  boat  put  out,  the 
journeymen  painters  wept  over  their  memories  and 
their  solitariness,  and  Janson  remained  a  little 
longer  over  his  finished  meal  and  his  castles  in 
the  air.  Then  he  rose,  put  off  paying  till  later,  since 
he  thought  it  looked  well  to  have  an  account  here 
and  meant  to  take  a  little  more  presently,  and  went 
up  on  deck  to  look  about  him,  feeling  satisfaction 
in  the  firmness  and  sureness  of  his  steps  on  the 
companion-way. 

It  was  gray  and  cold  up  there,  the  air  gave  an 
impression  of  blindness,  the  broken  ice  rattled 
against  the  bows.   The  passengers,   simple   folk 


64  PER  HALLSTROM 

merely,  sat  huddled  by  the  engines  for  the  sake 
of  the  warmth,  looking  sluggishly  at  one  another 
and  saying  nothing.  Janson  remembered  the  heavy 
thing  that  had  been  carried  on  board,  glanced 
round  in  search  of  it  but  did  not  find  it,  and  con- 
tinued his  walk  on  to  the  upper  deck  and  looked 
around. 

It  was  a  trifle  dismal;  that  was  unavoidable. 
Gray  and  white  and  misty,  the  sky  like  tin-plate, 
the  lake  like  lead,  no  movement  In  the  water,  only 
the  furrow  of  the  steamer  and  slowly  eddying 
lumps  of  Ice  broken  In  pieces.  No  other  color  than 
the  naked  walls  of  the  empty  villas,  and  patches 
of  red  or  green  from  upturned  boats  on  the  shores : 
the  horizon  cut  off  by  the  dark  prickly  line  of  the 
firs. 

The  captain,  a  squat  little  man  who  looked  as 
If  he  had  been  cut  off  from  below,  was  pacing  up 
and  down  his  tiny  enclosure  like  a  bear  In  a  cage. 
Janson  thought  that  he,  as  representing  the  upper 
classes  on  that  boat,  owed  It  to  his  position  to 
speak  to  the  captain,  and  he  smiled  and  made  a 
remark  about  the  weather;  but  he  got  only  short 
replies  and  therefore  did  not  dare  to  offer  the 
captain  a  drink,  as  he  had  at  first  intended,  but 
withdrew  somewhat  shyly  to  the  smoking-cabin 
and  gave  his  order  for  coffee  and  punch. 

He  saw  clearly  that  the  waitress  was  Impressed 
when  she  came  up,  and  life  at  once  took  on  Its 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  65 

rosy  hue  for  him  again.  He  turned  in  his  woolen 
jersey  at  the  wrists  and  buttoned  his  coat  so  as  to 
look  more  like  a  gentleman,  he  called  the  girl  by 
her  Christian  name  and  came  near  to  inventing 
a  little  jest  before  she  went.  He  enjoyed  once 
more,  and  more  intensely,  all  the  thoughts  with 
which  he  had  been  busy. 

If,  now,  he  became  actually  almost  wealthy, 
should  he  get  married  at  once  or  should  he  enjoy 
himself  for  a  time  with,  for  instance,  Marie  here? 
She  evidently  thought  well  of  him;  he  was  a  fine- 
looking  fellow  with  mustaches  and  a  naturally 
pointed  beard.  He  would  be  able  to  crack  jokes 
if  he  had  a  little  practice  and  got  over  the  worst 
part.  He  would  drink  with  the  captain  sooner  or 
later;  he  ought  to  have  a  little  fun  like  other  folk. 
Augusta  would  be  willing  to  wait,  for  she  was  a 
sensible  girl  and  certainly  did  not  long  for  the 
trials  of  marriage,  though  she  would  bear  them 
in  exemplary  fashion  when  they  did  come.  No  one 
knew  of  their  feeling  for  each  other,  and  the  words 
they  had  exchanged  upon  the  subject  were  but 
few  and  simple,  though  clear  enough  since  each 
felt  sure  of  the  other.  She  was  a  splendid  girl  and 
he  a  deuced  fine  fellow! 

How  he  had  made  his  way  up — just  think  of 
It!  He  had  starved,  he  had  frozen,  had  known 
Chrlstmases  without  a  single  candle,  had  begged 
credit  for  his  mother  from  shop-keepers  and  been 


66  PER  HALLSTROM 

refused,  had  got  drunk  on  a  glass  of  beer  and 
wept  for  shame,  had  worked  with  ice  forming 
round  his  wrists,  had  been  beaten  in  the  cold  but 
without  getting  warmer.  He  had  even  taken  com- 
munion in  worn-out  shoes,  had  lain  sick  and  known 
that  there  would  not  be  a  penny  for  his  funeral. 
Then  matters  had  improved;  he  had  been  "con- 
verted" and  had  braced  himself  to  a  vivid  con- 
sciousness of  a  responsibility  that  never  loosed  its 
hold,  as  also  of  the  practical  advantages  of  being 
respected  by  his  fellow-men,  he  had  felt  himself 
a  worm  and  a  chosen  vessel  before  the  Almighty 
and  an  irreproachable  man  before  all  others.  The 
religious  impression  had  soon  worn  off,  but  he 
was  what  he  was,  a  man  of  sense,  who  looked 
before  he  leaped,  and  knew  how  to  make  his  own 
way.  The  coffee  was  good,  the  punch  was  good, 
and  as  he  sat  there  in  a  glow  his  imagination  took 
a  swift  and  almost  poetic  flight,  although  it  was 
occupied  only  with  possible  and  even  common- 
place things.  The  future  lay  before  him  in  the 
comfort  and  warmth  of  a  home,  and  the  wintry 
scene  outside  the  windows,  with  its  blind  staring, 
its  cold,  and  its  powerless  hostility,  only  served  to 
sharpen  the  effect. 

Janson  would  have  liked  to  sing,  but  in  the  first 
place  he  supposed,  from  recent  recollections,  that 
this  was  forbidden,  and  then  he  had  no  voice  and 
knew  nothing  but  a  couple  of  hymns  from  days 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  67 

gone  by,  melancholy  hymns  that  did  not  suit  his 
present  mood.  So  instead  of  singing  he  got  up 
and  walked  about,  since  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  keep  still;  and  in  order  to  see  people  again,  to 
show  them  his  happiness  and  do  something  for 
them,  he  betook  himself  to  the  steerage. 

There  stood  the  two  painters,  having  probably 
been  turned  out  of  the  saloon,  smiling  sadly  and 
cheerfully  by  turns  at  each  other  and  the  wall  they 
stood  by  and  at  everything.  There  the  country- 
people  thawed  in  the  warmth  and  comfort  and 
exchanged  a  few  words  now  and  again.  There  the 
screw  beat  slowly  and  surely  like  a  heart,  driving 
the  whole  ship  forwards  with  a  muffled  sound  of 
ice  and  ice-cold  water  yielding  to  her  passage. 

Janson  went  over  to  the  other  side,  where  he 
had  not  been  before,  and  his  smiling  glance  met  two 
faces  that  seemed  familiar  to  him.  Augusta's  par- 
ents— what  a  happy  chance !  Now  he  could  get 
some  news — and  beside  them  a  long  object,  evi- 
dently that  which  he  had  wondered  about.  He 
determined  to  find  out  also  what  it  was,  and  be- 
came as  happy  as  a  child  at  his  meeting  with  these 
two,  which  as  it  were  brought  him  nearer  to  the 
object  of  his  thoughts. 

He  went  up  to  them  and  greeted  them  warmly, 
but  they  turned  curiously  reserved  looks  upon  him. 
Did  they  not  recognize  him?  "It's  Janson,"  he 
said.  "And  how  are  you  this  lovely  afternoon?" 


68  PER  HALLSTROM 

But  they  did  not  laugh  at  the  witticism,  as  they 
should  have  done:  they  silently  stretched  out  their 
hands  and  greeted  him  modestly,  conscientiously, 
and  a  trifle  ceremoniously,  as  is  the  habit  of  their 
class — almost  too  ceremoniously,  with  an  excess 
of  stiffness  and  coldness  in  their  hands. 

Janson  stared  past  them  at  the  long  object  with 
a  slight  shock  of  uneasiness  which  he  could  not 
explain,  and  with  heightened  curiosity.  Was  it 
theirs?  There  was  a  tarpaulin  over  it:  it  was 
strangely  narrow. 

He  turned  his  eyes  from  it  towards  their  faces. 
They  were  even  calmer  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, and  indeed  a  trifle  pallid. 

"Been  in  to  town,  Erikson?"  asked  Janson,  by 
way  of  opening  a  conversation,  though  there  could 
be  no  doubt  of  the  fact. 

"Yes,  we  have." 

"Then  you've  seen  Augusta,  I  expect?  How  is 
she,  and  how's  she  getting  on?" 

Erikson  slowly  made  ready  to  answer ;  it  seemed 
to  be  uncommonly  diflicult  for  him.  The  wife's 
features  were  drawn  into  a  curious  grimace.  Was 
she  laughing?  A  queer  sort  of  laughter!  Jan- 
son's  own  smile  stiffened  as  he  met  it. — No,  she 
was  crying,  and  she  laid  her  coarsened  fingers 
over  her  eyes  while  the  tears  trickled  down  be- 
tween them.  Then  the  husband  said  slowly:  "Our 
girl,  Augusta,  she  died  the  night  afore  last." 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  69 

Janson  was  bereft  of  thought  and  feeling;  he 
could  only  hear  how  the  noise  of  the  broken  ice 
penetrated  through  the  dull  pulsations  of  the  en- 
gines, which  now  became  strangely  slow  with  whole 
eternities  between  them.  Was  the  boat  going  to 
stop?  And  he  heard  himself  ask  with  a  voice  that 
took  on  the  same  heavy  beat:  "How?  How  did 
she  die?" 

The  answer  came  circumstantially,  with  painful 
conscientiousness  amid  an  enforced  calm. 

"At  the  hospital.  We  knew  nothing  about  it, 
and  then  there  came  a  telephone  message  that  she 
was  there.  The  day  afore  yesterday  they  sent  me 
word  that  some  one  wanted  to  talk  to  me  on  the 
telephone.  I  come  there  and  says  'Hallo !'  'Is  it 
Augusta's  father?'  they  ask  at  the  other  end. 
'Yes,'  says  I,  'is  it  Augusta?'  I  thought  perhaps 
that  she  had  something  real  glad  to  tell  me  and 
so  was  joking  with  me.  'No,  Augusta's  in  the  hos- 
pital,' they  say  at  the  other  end;  'she's  ill.'  It  was 
the  servant  in  the  family  that  Augusta  sewed  for, 
and  she  didn't  tell  me  anything,  only  talked  a  lot, 
as  them  girls  do,  and  was  in  a  hurry.  So  when  we 
went  In  yesterday  morning  and  came  to  the  hos- 
pital and  asked  for  her,  the  gentleman  at  the  gate 
said  that  there  was  nobody  there  with  that  name,  but 
we  stopped  there  and  couldn't  understand  how  she 
could  be  well  again  and  out  already.  Then  some  one 
else  comes  along  and  they  look  into  papers.  'Oh, 


70  PER  HALLSTROM 

yes,'  says  they,  'it's  all  right,  Augusta  Wil- 
helmina,  age  twenty-three,'  and  so  forth,  and  we 
tries  to  get  in.  'No,'  says  they,  'not  this  way: 
she  died  last  night.'  There  we  stood  in  the 
snow  and  didn't  know  what  we  were  doing  and 
got  in  other  people's  way  and  were  pushed  aside. 
But  then  they  were  kind  to  us  and  helped  us  to 
look  after  her." 

And  he  went  on  to  tell  why  she  had  gone  there, 
for  some  internal  complaint,  and  how  she  had 
been  operated  upon  and  died  under  the  operation. 
He  spoke  without  the  slightest  tone  of  lament  and 
seemed  only  to  be  striving  with  his  calm  and  hope- 
less look  to  reconstruct  all  the  facts  as  they  had 
presented  themselv^es. 

Janson  dared  not  meet  his  eyes  or  notice  the 
mother's  tears.  He  looked  at  the  tarpaulin  behind 
them  and  again  wondered  absent-mindedly  what 
it  covered.  Was  the  boat  going  to  stop  ?  The  piston- 
rods  moved  at  longer  and  longer  intervals.  They 
would  soon  be  backing. 

"And  where  is  she  now?"  he  asked,  when  all 
was  silent.  The  wife  let  her  fingers  fall  from  her 
face,  and  her  eyes  blinded  with  tears  were  revealed 
in  the  gray  light  from  the  port-hole.  She  stretched 
out  her  hand  towards  the  tarpaulin,  groping 
wildly,  then  let  it  fall  and  arrested  it  in  a  despair- 
ing caress  of  the  hard  canvas.  The  husband  spoke 
in  subdued  and  hollow  tones  as  before. 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  71 

"She's  there,  our  Augusta.  We  bought  a  coffin 
in  David  Bagare  Street.  It  was  ready,  just  the 
right  size,  and  so  we  had  her  laid  out  at  once." 
And  he  went  on  to  tell  what  steps  they  had  had  to 
take  to  arrange  this  and  what  the  coffin  had  cost — 
all  the  chilling  misery  of  the  mise-en-scene  of  death. 
They  had  nearly  missed  the  boat,  and  what  could 
they  have  done  then? 

Janson  heard  every  word  and  also  the  beat  of 
the  engines — more  rapid  now,  disturbingly  rapid 
— but  it  was  with  a  curious  growing  feeling  that 
something  had  come  In  between,  something  had 
arisen  between  him  and  all  this.  What  was  it? 
It  was  grief,  it  was  bitter  cold  from  outside,  it  was 
despair  that  would  fain  cry  out  and  strike — and 
now  it  was  upon  him. 

He  uttered  a  cry  of  anguish  that  was  driven 
all  over  the  boat  and  frightened  all  other  sounds 
into  silence.  Behind  him  a  circle  of  terrified  faces 
gleamed  like  white  patches  in  the  twilight,  with 
mouths  open  and  eyes  staring.  The  two  journey- 
men painters  clutched  each  other's  hands  like  chil- 
dren in  the  dark;  In  the  doorway  of  the  fore  cabin 
women's  heads  emerged  from  the  gloom.  He  him- 
self listened  to  his  cry,  did  not  understand  It,  and, 
undoing  the  buttons  of  his  coat,  he  panted  for 
breath. 

"The  coffin,"  he  hissed,  "the  coffin?  Was  it  that 
that  came?  Was  that  what  I  heard  carried  here? 


72  PER  HALLSTROM 

Open  it!  Take  away  the  tarpaulin,  open  it!  I  want 
to  see  her,  I  want  to  see  her !" 

The  parents  sat  rigid  before  his  look,  which 
had  become  so  terribly  pale.  Behind  his  back  the 
circle  of  heads  closed  in  more  thickly;  they  began 
to  think  in  a  kind  of  common  groping  movement, 
seized  by  the  same  terror,  but  inarticulate  yet. 
Was  he  out  of  his  mind,  sick,  or  only  drunk?  What 
was  he  talking  about,  and  what  cold  feeling  was 
it  that  swept  down  upon  that  narrow  enclosed 
space? 

His  longing  to  see  the  dead  girl  seized  him  with 
unexpected  force,  he  could  not  bear  a  refusal,  he 
could  have  crawled  on  his  knees  and  coaxed  a 
hearing  from  them.  His  feeling  for  her,  which  had 
disappeared,  suddenly  blossomed  out  into  pas- 
sion, and  he  knew  that  it  must  always  have  been 
so,  and  yet  he  was  weak  as  a  child  with  all  his 
violence.  He  seized  the  parents'  hands,  bent  over 
them  and  spoke  rapidly,  but  his  distorted  counte- 
nance frightened  them  and  they  hardly  understood 
him. 

"I  loved  her;  let  me  see  her,  open  the  coffin! 
I  loved  her;  we  had  settled  that  now  this  spring 
or  some  other  spring — and  now  she  is  dead,  dead  ! 
But  I  must  see  her,  I  tell  you.  I  heard  when  she 
came.  She  trod  so  heavily  over  my  head,  I  was 
thinking  of  nothing,  here  and  there,  as  one  does — 
as  one  does,  oh,  God! — and  then  she  came.  Show 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  73 

me  now  that  she  is  dead;  I  don't  believe  you.  It 
was  just  here  I  saw  her  last.  I  stood  like  this,  and 
she  said  good-bye,  and  laughed  and  gave  me  her 
hand,  and  how  can  it  be,  then  .  .  .  .  ?  I  must  see 
her  hands,  I  must  see  her  hands — open  the  coffin, 
I  say,  or  else  I'll  do  it  myself  and  lay  myself  down 
beside  her." 

They  understood  him  at  last,  and  shuddered 
and  were  terrified  at  the  thought  of  the  corpse. 
But  behind  him  the  circle  had  drawn  still  closer 
and  had  found  words:  "Let  him  have  his  way; 
he'll  go  out  of  his  mind,  else." 

They  obeyed.  Still  trembling,  they  rose,  drew 
off  the  tarpaulin,  and  turned  the  half-insertecj 
screws.  He  stood  upright,  rocking  himself  to  and 
fro  to  subdue  his  inward  cries.  His  gaze  was  fixed 
immovably  upon  the  end  of  the  coffin  where  the 
head  must  be.  And  then  they  raised  the  lid. 

In  the  scanty,  cold,  gray  light  of  the  corner 
she  was  doubly  cold  and  pale,  the  contracted  and 
emaciated  face  seemed  small  and  fragile,  but  took 
on  an  awful  beauty  and  grandeur  from  the  pain- 
filled  peace  of  the  mouth  and  the  conquered  suffer- 
ing in  the  sunken  eyes.  But  the  most  dreadful  thing 
to  see  was  the  resting  of  the  hands  one  against  the 
other. 

Janson  had  thought  that  he  would  touch  them, 
seize  them,  kiss  them,  whisper  to  them  and  warm 
them:  but  now  he  dared  not  even  look  at  them. 


74  PER  HALLSTROM 

Instead,  he  placed  his  own  hands  together  in  the 
same  way  and  wrung  them  as  if  in  religious  en- 
thusiasm and  in  torment.  Though  he  felt  the  pres- 
ent nearer  and  more  real  to  him  than  ever,  yet  his 
consciousness  was  at  the  same  time  far  away,  sev- 
eral years  back  in  his  life,  at  the  moment  when 
he  was  being  "converted."  It  was  in  a  narrow 
room,  as  now,  with  the  breath  of  many  people 
panting  in  the  ear,  and  many  eyes  staring  at  the 
same  point,  and  slow  thoughts  gifted  with  wings, 
and  cold  and  damp  outside.  He  did  not  know 
whether  they  were  words  from  that  time  that  now 
rose  to  his  lips  once  more. 

"We  poor  mortals,  what  do  we  know?  I  have 
talked  and  laughed  like  others,  I  have  thought 
about  my  own  and  believed  that  it  was  mine,  and 
I  have  not  heard  how  steps  were  drawing  near, 
have  not  seen  how  hands  already  gripped  it  fast. 
I  have  built  my  house  and  stamped  upon  the  bed- 
rock and  have  said,  'It  is  mine!'  But  the  mountain 
split  to  pieces  under  my  feet,  and  I  am  falling  in 
the  sand  and  the  water  rises — soon  all  will  come 
down,  and  the  rafters  will  strike  my  head." 

He  ceased,  for  he  found  no  more  words.  On 
that  day  he  had  had  many,  there  had  been  a  shiver 
of  pleasure  in  it,  something  that  had  seized  him 
by  the  hair  and  borne  him  aloft  in  a  transport. 
But  then  the  feeling  was  so  common :  his  despair 
did  not  reach  anything  tangible,  it  came  in  a  stream 


A  HUMBLE  TRAGEDY  75 

from  without  and  bore  him  with  it.  Now  there 
was  this  poor  rigid  face,  these  hands  ....  And 
he  continued,  with  short  moaning  sounds,  half 
stifled  with  tears:  "Augusta!  Augusta!  That  you 
should  come  so,  that  we  should  meet  like  this! 
What  did  we  know  last  time,  what  did  we  think, 
and  what  did  I  know  just  now?" 

In  the  circle  around  him  they  began  to  under- 
stand what  had  happened ;  the  women's  tears  began 
to  flow,  the  men  stared  in  silence  at  the  floor.  Only 
in  the  two  young  painters  with  their  half-drunken 
susceptibilities  did  the  otherwise  self-contained  pity 
express  itself  in  action.  They  tottered  up  to  the 
mourner,  caught  his  hands,  and  inclined  their  poor 
muddled  heads  towards  his  own.  He  looked  at 
them  without  astonishment  and  with  no  thought 
of  shame,  and  with  a  friendly  movement  led  them 
back;  then  the  tears  burst  forth. 

The  dead  girl's  parents  had  also  realized  at 
last  who  it  was  they  had  before  them;  but  the 
coffin-lid  between  their  hands  had  entirely  occu- 
pied them.  They  had  only  wondered  in  alarm 
whether  they  could  get  it  on  again.  Now  they  saw 
that  they  could  do  so,  and  slowly,  reverently,  they 
hid  their  lost  one  from  the  eyes  of  all,  spread  out 
the  tarpaulin  again,  and  prepared  a  place  between 
them  for  whenever  he  should  choose  to  take  it. 

He  did  so  quite  soon,  his  composure  was  re- 
stored, and  he  began  to  talk  with  them. 


76  PER  HALLSTROM 

There  they  sat  and  exchanged  their  memories, 
and  beneath  their  restrained  and  mournful  words 
the  legend  of  the  dead  grew  up,  that  legend  which 
is  perhaps  more  true  than  the  reality,  since  all  that 
is  mean  has  vanished  out  of  it — that  echo  of  a 
human  being's  best  voice,  which  Is  heard  after  all 
of  us  when  regret  Is  there  to  form  it.  They  were 
no  fine  or  subtle  feelings  and  Images  that  they  con- 
jured up,  only  barren  commonplaces  about  duties 
performed,  and  good  will,  and  gladness — so  mel- 
ancholy now — but  a  certain  greatness  came  over 
them,  as  good  as  most  other  greatness,  through 
the  calm  and  dignity  of  their  tones.  And  around 
them  their  fellow-passengers  listened  and  followed 
the  story,  as  much  of  it  as  they  could  hear,  and 
believed  every  word  and  sat  very  still,  conscious 
of  the  engine-beats  as  a  kind  of  rhythm  to  the 
whole,  and  the  noise  of  the  breaking  ice  outside 
In  the  gathering  darkness  and  the  cold. 


MELCHIOR 

[MELCHIOR] 

FROM  THANATOS 

1900 


Melchior 

HE  WAS  one  of  those  beings  who  are  not 
seldom  to  be  met  with  in  the  country  in  some 
decayed  gentleman's  house,  where  the  shutters  are 
for  the  most  part  screwed  on  to  the  windows  day 
and  night  and  stare  with  their  round  eye-holes  at 
the  neglected  grounds,  on  the  watch  for  something 
unforeseen  to  turn  up  and  direct  the  course  of 
time  backwards,  against  Nature's  common  laws. 
Since  the  passing  of  the  happy  sociable  days  when 
carriages  or  sledges  would  drive  up  in  a  circle 
round  the  middle  flower-bed,  and  a  superfluity  of 
light  and  warmth  streamed  out  through  the  gate 
in  welcome  towards  the  guests,  the  inmates  of  the 
place  seem  no  longer  to  have  any  reason  for  their 
slumbering  existence. 

Inside,  the  house  looks  deserted  and  unswept. 
On  the  faded  tapestries  are  patches  that  have  kept 
the  original  color,  revealing  the  position  of  the 
more  valuable  pieces  of  furniture  which  have  van- 
ished. Those  that  remain,  sofas  and  chairs  in  the 
empire  style,  painted  in  white  lead,  have  become 
bluish  and  dark  with  age  and  cold,  like  thin  and 
frozen  hands.  Here  and  there  hang  portraits  of 
straight-backed  individuals,  whose  confident  bear- 
ing, even  before  the  searching  lens  of  the  camera, 

79 


8o  PER  HALLSTROM 

shows  clearly  that  they  never  dreamt  of  the  possi- 
bility of  hanging  here  one  day,  soiled  by  famishing 
flies,  while  their  readily  repeated  titles  strive  in 
vain  to  shed  a  parting  glory  upon  the  family. 

The  present  owner  (only  apparent  owner) 
seems  to  be  as  much  a  product  of  the  decline  of  the 
house  as  that  decline  is  of  himself:  there  is  a  sug- 
gestion of  decaying  timber  about  his  person. 
Through  Indolence  or  incapacity  he  has  lost  all 
chance  of  keeping  his  position  within  his  own 
class  or  gaining  a  footing  in  another,  and  It  Is  as 
impossible  for  him  to  re-establish  himself  as  for 
the  building  to  renovate  Itself  unaided. 

If  the  house,  as  was  the  case  with  Melchlor's, 
Is  situated  very  far  north,  where  It  has  always 
been  a  little  exotic,  the  cold  and  the  years  take 
a  much  firmer  hold  upon  it,  the  snow  presses  down 
upon  Its  back,  the  storm  tears  away  the  pantiles, 
everything  proceeds  more  rapidly  and  dismally 
than  elsewhere.  Melchlor's  establishment  had  in 
a  few  years  been  rendered  In  a  great  measure 
helpless,  like  a  paralytic  body;  Its  life  remained 
only  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  kitchen, 
reduced  to  the  lowest  functions.  And  with  Melchior 
himself  It  was  little  better. 

Not  that  he  had  ever  been  good  for  very  much 
more,  but  as  long  as  circumstances  had  held  him 
up,  nobody  had  noticed  It. 

He  had  had  some  schooling,  which  he  had  duly 


MELCHIOR  8i 

forgotten,  but  which  had  at  any  rate  left  behind  it 
the  Latin  dictionary  placed  in  a  conspicuous  posi- 
tion on  his  book-shelf,  and  the  power  to  pronounce 
foreign  words  in  an  educated  fashion  without 
being  afraid  of  them.  He  could  make  daughters 
of  families  laugh  at  almost  the  same  jokes  as  the 
serving-maids,  but  with  suitably  adapted  tones. 
He  could  ride  a  horse  and  shoot  a  hare  and  talk 
sensibly  enough  in  business,  however  It  might  be 
when  he  came  to  practice.  So  he  could  take  his 
place  in  the  life  of  society,  and  this  he  did. 

He  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself. 

Nobody  had  waited  for  dinners  with  frock-coat 
buttoned  tighter,  rubbing  his  hands  before  the 
hostess  and  concealing  under  a  friendly  smile  the 
appetite  induced  by  the  long  drive.  Nobody  had 
with  greater  restraint  attended  to  the  word  of 
command  for  the  schnapps  or  more  enthusiastic- 
ally settled  down  to  the  smorgasbord.  Nobody  had 
with  deeper  respect  bowed  and  stared  over  the 
toasts.  Losses  and  abuse  at  the  card-table  no  one 
had  taken  more  lightly.  None  had  drunk  punch 
more  devotedly  and  honorably,  with  an  ever 
greater  appreciation  of  every  fresh  glass,  or 
laughed  more  heartily  at  the  coarsest  well-worn 
stories.  Nobody  had  gone  home  in  such  a  glow 
of  gratitude  towards  the  whole  world,  so  benevo- 
lently philosophizing  beneath  the  stars  and  the 
glowing  stump  of  a  cigar.  And  nobody,  as  long 


82  PER  HALLSTROM 

as  it  was  possible,  had  been  more  ready  to  impart 
to  others  the  same  privileges  and  the  same  joy. 

But  the  world  had  changed  without  any  obvi- 
ously sufficient  cause.  Troubles  began  to  wait  at 
the  doors  and  did  not  stop  there  either.  Soon  they 
were  sitting  in  Melchior's  most  comfortable  chairs, 
and  when  they  went  out,  admitting  others  in  their 
passing,  they  took  away  the  chairs  with  them.  His 
house  grew  very  bare  about  him,  and  the  inex- 
plicable nature  of  the  proceeding  made  it  all  the 
more  distressing.  It  was  as  though  a  conjurer  had 
jestingly  undertaken  to  show  how  all  Melchior's 
possessions  could  be  contained  in  his  top-hat,  and 
then  by  cramming  it  down  over  his  head  had  con- 
vinced him  that  In  any  case  the  hat  was  empty  into 
the  bargain. 

Melchior  did  not  take  it  seriously  to  heart.  He 
was  as  he  had  always  been,  but  others  no  longer 
took  him  for  the  same.  Every  one  had  suddenly 
become  staid  and  sensible,  and  expected  the  same 
of  him.  The  thing  that  most  annoyed  them  now 
was  his  relation  to  Carolina,  which  to  himself  had 
previously  seemed  a  quite  innocent  though  no 
longer  amusing  joke.  She  was  a  servant-girl  v/ho 
had  never  seemed  to  him  especially  pretty,  but 
with  whom  he  had  entered  into  an  "intimate  ac- 
quaintanceship," as  the  phrase  went.  The  acquaint- 
anceship soon  seemed  to  him  to  be  very  much  on 
the  surface,  since  it  ended  by  their  not  even  wish- 


MELCHIOR  83 

ing  each  other  "Good  morning,"  but  there  she 
was,  anyhow,  and  could  not  be  reasoned  away,  and 
still  less  could  the  children,  though  as  far  as  that 
went  they  too  were  almost  like  strangers  to  him. 
And  it  grew  very  dismal  about  him  in  his  loneliness 
away  up  in  a  desolate  valley,  where  the  mountains  ' 
ended  and  the  sea-coast  began. 

All  real  social  intercourse  was  over.  High 
bailiffs,  foresters,  and  even  sheriffs'  officers  soon 
lived  their  worthy  lives  apart  from  him.  At  the 
inn,  when  It  was  possible,  he  formed  occasional 
acquaintanceships  with  horse-buyers  and  county 
police,  but  aflast  he  had  no  one  at  all,  and  fared 
really  badly  and  was  sometimes  in  want. 

Yet  both  without  and  within  he  was  still  very 
much  the  same.  He  wished  nobody  any  harm,  he 
preferred  to  enjoy  himself,  above  all  he  sought  to 
avoid  the  labor  of  thinking  and  to  be  left  in  peace. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  every  one  else,  from  the 
governor  of  the  province  right  down  to  the  house- 
cat  or  the  bear  in  his  cave,  desired  the  same  thing, 
and  except  in  the  case  of  the  last-named  he  had 
always  respected  their  desires.  He  held  that  a  man 
was  a  man,  whether  he  were  counted  among  the 
damned  or  the  blessed,  and  perhaps  also  inde- 
pendently of  clothes  and  position,  but  that  a  man 
with  a  hundred  thousand  was  a  thousand  times 
more  of  a  man  than  one  with  a  hundred.  He  had  no 
doubts   about  the  precepts   of  religion,   but  was 


84  PER  HALLSTROM 

afraid  they  were  unpractical,  and  if  taken  quite 
seriously  would  ruin,  among  other  things,  the 
farming  that  was  already  so  embarrassed.  But 
they  need  not  be  taken  seriously,  for  in  common 
with  all  exalted  ideas,  such  as  the  talk  about  peer- 
less and  loyal  men  to  which  he  had  always  listened 
with  emotion,  they  had  in  them  more  of  poetic 
than  of  literal  truth.  He  believed  that  cleanliness 
was  a  virtue  and  water  often  cold  to  wash  in,  that 
untruth  was  a  human  failing  and  "lie"  a  very  ugly 
word.  As  may  be  seen,  his  ideas,  if  not  clearer 
than  other  people's,  were  just  about  as  coherent. 

Externally  he  still  had  a  certain  elegance  re- 
maining. His  cap  was  of  Alaska  seal  and  could 
not  become  anything  else,  although  the  skin  had 
to  a  great  extent  returned  to  the  hidden  recesses 
of  Nature  which  it  had  unwillingly  left:  he  could 
not  help  its  fitting  his  head  as  if  it  had  been  new. 
His  fur  coat  was  well  filled  out  by  his  figure;  his 
legs  and  gait  had  once  for  all  acquired  the  posture 
which  comes  from  treading  one's  own  soil  and 
imagining  that  one  is  directing  a  piece  of  work. 
His  eyes  still  had  the  alert  look  of  his  hunting 
days,  and  his  heavy  mouth  hid  its  embarrassed 
smile  under  a  mustache  which  the  years  might 
possibly  have  made  gray,  but  not  less  manly. 

He  was  nearing  forty  when  his  darkest  days 
approached.  All  his  property  was  represented  by 
Carolina,    who    unfortunately    could   not   be    dis- 


MELCHIOR  85 

posed  of,  and  his  horse,  Xanthos,  to  whom  unfor- 
tunately the  opposite  applied.  This  was  probably 
the  object  which  above  all  others  in  life  set  Mel- 
chior's  heart-strings  vibrating  most  strongly.  Pride, 
admiration,  affection,  any  esthetic  speculation  of 
which  he  was  capable — of  all  this  Xanthos,  with 
his  trim  feet  and  his  short  ears,  his  broad  chest 
and  narrow  back,  his  thin  mane  and  bushy  tail, 
had  been  the  centre.  He  had  come  to  comprehend 
all  the  splendor  that  had  otherwise  vanished;  he 
was  the  tiny  hope  that  still  remained  in  spite  of 
everything.  Hence  the  high-sounding  name  that 
was  little  in  accord  with  Melchior's  habits ;  for  this 
horse's  sake  he  had  even  discovered  a  reminiscence 
of  school-learning  left  in  the  otherwise  sufficiently 
empty  crannies  of  his  memory.  He  had  bought  the 
animal  against  his  financial  conscience  and  had 
kept  it  hitherto  under  a  feigned  idea  that  it  was 
prudent  and  distinguished  thus  to  bury  his  capital, 
but  really  with  a  chilling  sense  that  if  he  once  lost 
Xanthos,  he  himself  would  understand  no  more 
than  others  why  his  immortal  soul  should  have 
chosen  his  particular  existence  as  its  view-point 
upon  eternity. 

But  to  this  matters  came,  and  by  the  middle  of 
the  winter  he  reluctantly  arrived  at  the  conclusion, 
aided  by  Carolina,  that  he  must  drive  Into  the 
town,  a  distance  of  thirty  miles  or  more,  and  sell 
the  horse. 


86  PER  HALLSTROM 

He  was  to  have  gone  very  early,  but  when  he 
woke  to  a  remembrance  of  what  the  day  had  in 
store  for  him,  he  drew  the  counterpane  about  his 
ears  and  swore  in  disgust,  and  was  soon  off  into  a 
warm  and  pleasant  dream  about  the  good  old  days. 
It  seemed  likely  that  there  would  be  no  journey 
at  all. 

But  when  Carolina  had  made  herself  sufficiently 
tender-footed  by  wandering  about  with  a  kind  of 
bounding  step  of  indignation  and  despair,  she  took 
the  liberty  of  breaking  into  his  dream.  She  had 
never  been  very  good-looking,  and  her  complexion, 
even  when  it  was  smooth  and  admired,  had  had 
that  tendency  to  violet  which  the  bitter  climate 
easily  gives.  Now  it  burned  hard  and  cold  as  the 
northern  lights.  She  spoke  with  the  curious  use, 
peculiar  to  the  district,  of  "one"  as  pronoun  of 
address  and  "he"  as  indefinite  pronoun  :  the  former 
idiom  gave  an  ironical  color,  even  where  that  was 
not  intended,  and  the  latter  stamped  even  a  gen- 
eral observation  with  something  aggressive  and 
personal. 

"Does  one  think,"  she  cried,  "that  one  can 
drone  away  out  of  this,  too,  that  one  can  lie  in 
bed  and  be  his  lordship  for  another  day  with  not 
a  penny  in  the  house,  and  the  wood  unchopped,  and 
the  snow  not  shoveled  off  the  path,  even?  Some- 
body else  can  bear  one  brat  after  brat,  and  stand 
up  to  the  eyes  in  work,  and  one  must  be  a  fine  gen- 


MELCHIOR  87 

tleman  with  his  horse,  and  only  that  is  fine  and 
good  enough  for  one !  Starvation's  generally  the 
end  of  it,  and  perhaps  that's  what  one  would  like, 
if  only  there's  a  fine  horse  for  the  funeral.  Now 
I  myself — and  an  eternal  shame  it  is — have  rubbed 
down  the  horse  while  one  has  been  lying  there 
snoozing,  and  perhaps  I  gave  it  a  pinch  or  two, 
and  now  there's  the  choice  between  us." 

Oh,  if  that  were  all,  thought  Melchior,  as  he 
compared  her  uncomfortably  piercing  look  with 
the  mild  and  shining  eyes  of  his  horse;  oh,  if  that 
were  all!  But  the  incomprehensible  world  had  for- 
bidden in  advance  any  reflections  as  to  that  pos- 
sibility. What  a  man  did  not  want,  that  he  had  to 
keep,  and  what  he  did  care  about,  rascally  horse- 
dealers  took  from  him.  He  tried  to  shrug  his 
shoulders  at  her  ill-bred  tone,  but  at  once  huddled 
them  together  for  the  cold,  and  felt  himself  en- 
tirely defenceless.  He  got  up  and  dipped  his  face 
in  water,  complaining  in  one  long  groan  that  it  was 
so  bitterly  cold  and  life  was  so  hard  to  live.  When 
he  was  dressed  he  looked  out  through  the  window, 
but  met  only  his  own  face  with  its  hanging  mus- 
taches against  the  shining  darkness. 

"It's  early  enough,"  he  said;  "why,  it's  still 
night!  And  perhaps  I  shan't  need  to  go  very  far," 
he  added,  with  a  shudder  at  the  thought;  "perhaps 
I  shall  meet  some  one  on  the  road,  and  then — 
why,  the  job  will  be  done.  Then  I'll  come  home 


88  PER  HALLSTROM 

before  night  in  some  other  conveyance  and  bring 
money  with  me,  and  everything'll  be  all  right." 

It  did  not  sound  so  cheerful  as  it  should  have 
done,  but  Carolina  was  magnanimous  enough  not 
to  notice  that.  So  he  put  on  his  well  worn  coat 
and  cap  and  shivered  in  the  cold  and  stamped 
manfully  into  his  fur  boots. 

"You'll  put  me  up  some  sandwiches  for  the 
journey,"  he  suggested  jauntily. 

But  Carolina  answered,  grim  as  Fate:  "There's 
nothing  to  put  up.  One  has  oneself  to  thank — 
there'll  be  a  few  loaves  left  in  the  kitchen." 

Melchior  swore  at  her  lack  of  delicacy,  but 
silently,  so  that  only  his  mustache  trembled.  He  felt 
a  respectful  pity  for  himself,  and  when  he  was 
alone  in  the  room  he  stole  softly  to  the  pantry  and 
took  a  handful  of  ginger-nuts,  the  only  delicacy 
in  the  house, 

"I'll  bring  home  a  whole  lot  instead,"  he 
thought,  "I  won't  forget  it" — and  he  made  a  ges- 
ture of  refusal  towards  the  bread,  as  he  went  out 
to  harness  the  horse. 

It  was  bitterly  cold  doing  it,  everything  tried 
to  slip  out  of  his  fingers.  Melchior  endeavored  to 
put  into  his  manner  as  much  of  his  usual  cheerful- 
ness as  he  could,  so  that  the  horse  should  not 
suspect  anything.  But  when  he  sat  in  the  sledge 
with  the  elkskin  rug  hiding  its  old  and  leaky  con- 
dition, and  looked  at  Xanthos  and  stretched  him- 


MELCHIOR  89 

self  out,  he  felt  with  satisfaction  that  the  whole 
affair  looked  quite  imposing  as  he  cracked  his 
whip  at  the  door, 

Carolina  thought  so,  too.  Her  afflicted  woman's 
heart  softened,  and  in  a  humble  reflection  that 
perhaps  she  had  done  them  both  wrong,  she  tried 
to  smile  at  driver  and  steed  and  showed  the  chil- 
dren what  a  father  they  still  had,  and  what  a 
horse  he  could  call  his  own. 

Melchior  was  glad  to  get  away  from  his  wretch- 
edness :  his  errand  did  not  present  itself  to  his 
mind  just  then.  He  once  more  cracked  his  whip 
for  the  encouragement  of  the  onlookers,  threw 
his  head  smartly  back,  and  off  he  went. 

Dawn  had  come  now.  The  stars  twinkled  palely 
in  the  cold,  and  the  fir-tops  ate  sharply  into  the 
falling  white  moon.  At  the  gate  the  hoar-frost  fell 
from  the  rowans  and  powdered  his  coat  with  the 
finest  silver,  while  waxwings,  as  gorgeous  as  par- 
rots, let  go  the  red  berries  and  chattered  after 
Melchior  as  he  drove  by. 

He  thought  of  the  old  days,  when  he  was  set- 
ting off  to  school.  To-day,  as  then,  the  excitement 
that  belongs  to  the  beginning  of  a  journey  pre- 
dominated, and  entirely  hid  the  goal. 

So  Melchior  drove  along  by  woods  and  fells 
and  bogs,  where  the  wind  whistled  in  the  slanting 
black  pines  and  drew  the  snow  after  it  like  eddying 
smoke.  He  sat  cheerful  and  light-hearted  with  his 


90  PER  HALLSTROxM 

cheek  against  the  soft  sealskin  and  enjoyed  the 
jingle  of  the  sleigh-bells  and  the  sight  of  Xan- 
thos'  trim  little  feet  dancing.  He  did  not  think 
much,  Melchior  could  not  do  that,  but  the  keen- 
ness of  the  air  and  the  swaying  motion  cleared 
his  brain,  and  filled  it  with  a  kind  of  idea  that 
everything  that  was  bright  and  happy  in  his  pres- 
ent life  was  passing  out  with  him  to  liberty,  that 
he  and  Xanthos  were  in  some  way  bound  together 
and  need  not  be  ashamed  before  any  one,  that 
they  two  would  take  their  pleasure  and  were 
deuced  fine  fellows,  both  of  them,  with  the  world 
open  before  them.  It  even  vaguely  suggested  Itself 
to  him  that  the  soul  which  he  like  other  people 
was  supposed  to  have  was  specially  connected  with 
Xanthos,  and  he  was  glad  to  feel  It  released.  And 
as  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  talking  to  himself 
or  to  the  horse,  since  friends  had  disappeared 
more  and  more,  he  called  out  now  and  again  In 
the  direction  of  the  animal's  sagaciously  twitch- 
ing ears. 

"Xanthos,  old  boy,"  he  said,  "we've  come  out 
of  It  well,  you  and  I;  we  left  the  old  woman  and 
the  brats  and  their  noise,  and  now  we're  going  to 
enjoy  ourselves.  One  takes  those  things  upon  one- 
self, Xanthos,  but  one  is  not  bound  forever  all 
the  same,  one  can  always  go  away.  It  was  getting 
too  hard  for  us  at  home,  we  were  getting  old 
there,  and  so  we  said  good-bye.  It's  a  fine  thing 


MELCHIOR  91 

to  travel  when  one  Is  young,  Xanthos,  and  look, 
what  lovely  weather  we're  going  to  have!" 

It  was  broad  day  now,  and  as  light  as  It  could 
be  so  far  north.  The  clouds,  which  had  been 
carded  together  Into  a  single  blanket,  now  parted, 
and  the  morning  sky  appeared,  clear  and  green 
and  cold,  while  against  It,  with  their  tops  high  In 
the  clouds,  the  mountains  lay  so  bright  and  Icy 
that  Melchlor  cringed  with  cold  as  he  went  by. 
But  soon  they  were  behind  him,  the  way  became 
open,  the  rising  of  the  road  over  the  hills  gave  an 
Impression  of  driving  Into  the  pale  expanse,  and 
everything  was  forgotten  In  the  mere  speed. 

A  peasant  with  downtrodden  pointed  shoes 
(himself  no  less  shrunken  than  they)  and  a  frozen 
drop  on  the  end  of  his  red  nose,  respectfully  swung 
open  a  gate;  Melchlor  nodded  his  patronage  to 
the  value  of  at  least  a  krona  and  went  on  even 
more  cheerfully  than  before,  through  the  village 
and  past  the  school-house,  where  the  children 
stopped  fighting  to  stare  after  him. 

"We  won't  stay  here  among  the  peasants,  Xan- 
thos," said  Melchlor;  "we'll  cross  the  river  first 
of  all." 

It  narrowed  here  to  a  waterfall.  The  banks 
contracted  In  steep  slopes  of  snow  and  pine  woods, 
everything  as  hard  and  cold  as  stone.  Most  of  the 
eddies  were  frozen  over  now,  but  In  the  middle, 
between  Ice-coated  boulders,  could  still  be  heard 


92  PER  HALLSTROM 

a  dull  wild  roar,  and  the  spray  rose  up  and  turned 
into  hoar-frost  at  once.  The  dark,  slippery  form 
of  an  otter  was  seen  gliding  into  a  hole  down  be- 
low; Melchior's  hunting  blood  rose  to  his  cheeks, 
his  memory  played  around  former  triumphs,  and 
he  was  surprised  to  see  how  lovely  it  was  down 
there.  But  he  had  to  drive  on;  he  had  enough  to 
do  to  reach  the  place  where  the  road  led  over  the 
river,  and  all  else  was  forgotten. 

The  ice  had  come  loose  at  the  edge  as  the  river 
had  sunk,  and  many  travelers  had  passed  before 
him  and  weighed  it  down,  so  that  the  water  had 
oozed  up  and  eaten  into  the  surface.  There  was  a 
regular  lake  to  scramble  down  into  from  the  high 
bank,  and  Xanthos  stopped,  uneasy  and  trembling. 
Behind  this  channel  the  covering  of  ice  lay  terribly 
broad  and  cold,  and  on  the  other  side,  far  off, 
was  another  dark  patch  of  wet.  Here  for  the  first 
time  Melchior  lost  heart. 

Xanthos  could  no  longer  manage  by  himself, 
for  in  that  case  they  would  both  have  stopped 
where  they  were.  His  master  must  jump  out  and 
lead  him.  The  ferryman  was  not  inclined  for  extra 
trouble,  since  he  expected  nothing  for  it:  he  stood 
at  his  door  and  grinned  at  them.  Disconcerted,  as 
he  always  was  by  ridicule,  Melchior  sprang  out 
of  the  sledge  and  pretended  to  laugh  and  talk  as 
they  plunged  in.  Poor  Xanthos,  he  went  in  up  to 
his  belly  and  the  snow  increased  around  his  wet 


MELCHIOR  93 

feet!  Poor  Melchior,  too,  with  his  fur  boots  that 
kept  the  water  in !  The  wind  moaned  and  whistled 
about  them  in  the  wide  open  valley — and  the  same 
difficulties,  only  worse,  at  the  other  bank.  Then 
they  had  to  run  and  stumble  along  so  as  to  get 
warm  and  knock  the  balls  of  ice  from  the  poor 
horse's  hoofs.  Melchior  swore,  and  all  his  light- 
heartedness  from  the  beginning  of  the  journey  had 
vanished.  He  could  no  longer  help  remembering 
on  what  errand  he  had  come.  Even  into  the 
wretched  sledge  the  water  had  penetrated  and 
had  frozen;  Melchior  began  to  long  for  some- 
thing warm.  But  he  would  have  to  pass  by  the 
inn,  for  he  had  gambling-debts  of  old  standing 
there  with  the  inn-keeper — could  he  without  loss 
of  self-respect  come  and  ask  for  coffee  on  credit? 

But  he  must  get  in  somewhere  and  warm  him- 
self a  moment,  and  he  must  see  people  and  re- 
assure himself.  It  was  as  though  nothing  existed 
except  himself  and  Xanthos,  and  also  a  blind  cold 
that  came  rushing  upon  them  and  demanded  their 
lives,  a  white  void  craving  to  be  filled,  with  what 
he  did  not  know,  but  he  had  nothing  to  give  it. 

He  stopped  at  a  wretched  little  hovel,  a  hut  of 
unbarked  timber  which  he  had  scarcely  noticed 
before,  put  on  a  friendly  air,  and  walked  in. 

"Is  there  any  coffee  to  be  had  here,  mother, 
coffee  without  salt?  A  little  coffee,  at  once?  I'm 
in  a  hurry,  you  see." 


94  PER  HALLSTROM 

The  old  woman  was  more  wretched  even  than 
her  cottage;  she  was  clothed  in  rags.  She  had 
two  daughters  much  like  herself,  with  the  ashen 
complexions  of  old  women.  The  younger  was 
blear-eyed  and  did  not  seem  quite  right  in  her 
head. 

They  all  looked  flattered,  abashed,  and  hope- 
ful, and  tried  their  best  to  smile.  Melchior  had 
never  seen  anything  so  poverty-stricken,  and  he 
became  terrified  and  oppressed  that  such  things 
could  be. — Coffee  they  had,  but  without  salt? 
What  was  there  to  have  with  it,  then?  They  had 
no  sugar. 

Melchior's  spirits  groaned  within  him.  "Only 
coffee,  then,  mother.  But  something  with  it,  per- 
haps? A  little  white  bread?" 

They  all  laughed  at  that.  What  did  he  take 
them  for?  How  should  they  have  white  bread? — 
But  the  youngest  girl  did  not  laugh  at  all  heartily. 

Melchior  congratulated  himself  that  he  had  his 
ginger-nuts,  and  he  broke  bits  out  of  them  in  his 
pocket  and  put  them  to  his  mouth  as  he  waited. 
He  was  so  hungry  that  these  crumbs  seemed  to 
him  ridiculous,  and,  besides,  the  feeble-minded 
girl  was  looking  at  him  all  the  time  and  drawing 
nearer  like  a  wild  beast  that  has  scented  something. 
In  a  sudden  impulse  of  soft-heartedness  he  gave 
her  the  whole  handful — there!  Good-bye  to  the 
ginger-nuts!  Her  face  lit  up  and  became  like  a 


MELCHIOR  95 

child's,  but  to  show  her  delight  she  could  do  noth- 
ing but  tramp  up  and  down  with  her  hands  hanging, 
like  a  little  bear  dancing.  Melchior  drank  his  bitter 
coffee  at  a  gulp  and  at  once  got  up  to  go.  They 
had  expected  a  copper,  and  it  grieved  him  that  he 
had  none  to  give.  He  only  felt  still  more  depressed 
by  this  poverty  after  his  rest,  and  he  shivered  un- 
easily as  he  took  his  place  in  the  sledge  and 
drove  on. 

On  past  woods  and  bogs  In  long  stretches,  al- 
ways the  same  scene.  The  woods  were  dark  green 
and  the  bogs  dark  blue  and  brown  where  no  snow 
lay  on  them,  as  for  the  most  part  It  did,  in  great 
masses  on  the  trees  and  great  drifts  on  the 
marshes.  Here  and  there,  patches  of  dark  frozen 
water  shone  like  dully  staring  eyes.  On  the  road 
two  sledge-tracks  of  shining  Ice  ran  on  before  and 
drew  him  between  them  towards  the  Inevitable, 
and  the  cold  hummed  and  sang  In  the  telegraph- 
wires. 

"I  shall  have  to  put  up  at  the  next  stopping- 
place,"  he  thought.  "There  I  must  sell  my  soul, 
if  I  have  luck  and  find  a  purchaser."  But  he  dared 
not  say  anything  to  Xanthos,  for  fear  he  might 
understand. 

Now  the  horse's  hoofs  thundered  on  the 
wooden  bridge,  and  the  Inn  lay  before  them,  red 
and  spacious  and  inviting.  Melchior  had  known 
pleasant  hours  there  before,   but  now  the  sight 


96  PER  HALLSTROM 

was  awful  to  see  and  drove  the  heart  up  into  his 
tightened  throat. 

The  ostler's  grin  of  recognition  must  be  sternly 
repressed. 

"Hallo,  there  I  I'm  just  looking  in  a  minute,  not 
stopping.  My  own  horse.  By  the  way,  is  there 
any  of  that  cursed  tribe  of  horse-dealers  here? 
Tired  of  the  horse,  you  know;  should  like  another 


now." 


"Yes,  there's  one,  a  proper  'un,  big  gold  watch 
and  wolfskin  coat.  Just  goin'  off  now." 

"What  luck!  We'd  better  follow  our  whim, 
then,  I  suppose."  Melchior  tottered  up  on  his 
stiffened  limbs,  erect  in  figure  and  with  a  proudly 
embarrassed  smile,  found  the  man  on  the  steps — 
an  obnoxious,  massive  figure,  wrapped  up  in  fold 
upon  fold  of  scarf  over  his  pocket-book — and  said 
what  he  had  to  say. 

"That  horse  there?"  answered  the  man,  and 
took  a  bird's-eye  view  of  it.  "Well,  let's  have  a 
look  at  him.  Take  him  out  and  trot  him  round." 

The  cursed  upstart!  Melchior  had  never 
thought  any  one  could  be  so  ill-mannered  and 
heartless.  Well,  needs  must,  since  it  was  a  ques- 
tion of  business;  he  must  restrain  himself. 
Fumbling  with  his  blue  and  trembling  hands,  he 
unharnessed  the  horse  and  brought  him  into  the 
yard. 

"Look  alive,  look  alive!  Let's  have  no  butter- 


MELCHIOR  97 

fingers!"  called  the  man.  "Is  he  slow  in  the  joints, 
eh,  that  horse  ?  Can't  he  step  it  out  and  go  ?" 

"Can't  he  just!  He's  trotted  twenty  miles  at  a 
stretch,  but  he's  got  as  much  spirit  as  ever."  Mel- 
chior  took  a  tickling  grip  on  the  bit  and  made  the 
animal  bridle  up.  Now,  Xanthos,  he  thought,  we 
must  show  them  what  you're  made  of.  He  cried 
and  halloo'd  and  danced  round  with  him  faster 
and  faster.  Both  horse  and  master  were  on  their 
mettle:  he  could  not  entirely  distinguish  between 
them,  and  only  remembered  that  this  was  a  busi- 
ness matter  and  that  some  one  was  to  be  im- 
pressed. He  was  hardly  conscious  of  his  poor 
frozen  feet  or  of  the  icicles  hanging  from  his 
mustaches  round  his  thin  face.  His  body  was 
jerked  to  and  fro,  and  it  was  only  by  accident  that 
he  kept  on  his  feet.  Inwardly  he  was  weeping  and 
raging  with  pain  and  anxiety,  but  he  tried  to  look 
as  cheerful  as  possible,  as  though  it  were  only 
from  the  sheer  joy  of  living  and  an  excess  of 
energy  that  he  was  dancing  about  like  this,  and 
all  kinds  of  shadowy  recollections  of  circuses  and 
other  amusements  crowded  into  his  brain.  In  the 
end  he  himself  believed  that  he  was  happy,  al- 
though it  felt  so  strange. 

The  dealer  stood  on  the  steps  and  cast  his  rapid 
professional  glance  over  the  animal,  as  also  over 
Its  master,  who  had  lost  his  cap  and  was  whirling 
around  like  a  straw.  At  length  he  came  down  and 


98  PER  HALLSTROM 

deigned  to  say  something — the  brute !  Melchlor 
stopped  to  listen.  There  were  many  people  round 
them  now. 

"An  old  horse,"  said  the  man,  "turning  gray 
already.  Has  he  any  teeth  left?" 

Melchior's  anger  strove  with  his  anxiety, 

"Gray,  sir?  You  run  yourself  and  get  your  skin 
full  of  frost!  Old?  He's  no  more  old  than  I  am." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  man,  appealing  to  the 
others  with  a  broad  grin,  "that'll  do,  I  reckon. 
You've  both  seen  your  best  days,  haven't  you?" 
Laughter  came  rolling  upon  him  from  all  sides 
and  struck  like  whips. 

Melchlor  felt  as  If  he  stood  stripped  and  naked 
in  the  snow.  What  was  he?  A  poor,  worn-out  devil 
dancing  at  a  fair.  What  was  he  good  for?  Noth- 
ing. And  he  stifled  his  indignation  under  a  humble 
laugh.  "Ha,  ha,  a  manner  of  speaking,  sir!  Xan- 
thos  is  young  enough,  young  and  strong.  I — well, 
I  have  been  younger,  but  that's  not  the  point  just 
now.  The  horse  Is  a  good  one:  come  and  look  at 
him." 

The  man  did  so,  pressing  his  fingers  roughly 
into  the  animal's  mouth,  as  if  he  meant  to  break 
off  its  teeth.  He  looked  critically  at  it,  but  that  was 
only  a  pretense,  for  he  knew  well  enough  what  it 
was  worth. 

"The  price,"  he  asked.  "What  had  you — hm, 
thought?" 


MELCHIOR  99 

Melchior  was  anxious,  as  if  he  had  had  to  guess 
a  lucky  number,  but  he  straightened  himself 
proudly.  "Fifteen  hundred  I  gave  for  him,  didn't 
look,  twice  at  a  krona  then,  but  he's  worth  that  and 
more.  I'll  sell  him  for  eight,  the  sledge  included,  of 
course,  the  sledge  included." 

The  man  whistled. — "Sledge  included?  Much 
obliged" — and  he  turned  on  his  heel.  No  doubt 
he  meant  to  create  an  effect  and  thought  that 
Melchior  would  run  after  him  and  catch  him  by  the 
folds  of  his  scarf.  Not  he !  It  hadn't  yet  come  to 
that !  With  fellows  of  that  sort  one  did  not  haggle 
or  barter,  either  in  buying  or  selling.  One  threw 
them  their  money  or  went  one's  way. 

With  a  dignified  bearing,  though  crimson  with 
rage,  he  put  in  the  horse  again,  drew  on  his  mit- 
tens (still  with  dignity)  and  took  his  place  in  the 
sledge,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  better  luck  in  the 
town.  But  since  there  was  now  no  one  left  to  im- 
press, he  sank  together  in  weakness  and  terror  for 
the  long  journey,  and  anxiety  for  the  issue  of  it, 
whether  it  led  to  business  or  no.  And  so  Melchior 
drove  away. 

On  past  woods  and  bogs  and  woods  and  bogs 
again,  with  here  and  there  a  field  with  drying- 
hurdles  and  fences  weighted  with  snow.  Thin  and 
cold  was  the  air,  and  tiring  all  this  whiteness  which 
merely  slipped  past  but  never  disappeared.  Some- 
times snow  fell,  lightly  and  silently,  as  though  the 


100  PER  HALLSTROM 

day  wished  to  blot  out  the  little  that  still  distin- 
guished it  from  uniformity,  and  doze  in  peace; 
then  it  would  stop,  and  the  light  would  gleam  out 
upon  a  still  colder,  almost  inconceivable  white- 
ness, and  stare  into  Melchior's  eyes.  This  hap- 
pened as  regularly  as  an  infinitely  prolonged 
blinking. 

Melchior  sat  watching  the  horse's  tired  trot,  and 
wondered  why  they  were  both  alive.  Perhaps  he 
had  been  wrong  in  not  giving  way  and  knocking 
off  a  hundred  or  two. 

"If  I  had,  Xanthos,"  he  thought,  "we  should 
be  well  off  now;  we  could  eat  and  drink,  and  with 
the  money  I  could  have  bought  something  for  us. 
Perhaps  we  weren't  worth  more,  either ;  it's  so  easy 
to  be  mistaken  in  oneself.  Others  must  know  bet- 
ter, they  know  everything.  It  would  have  been 
nice  to  go  home  instead,  warm  and  with  full  stom- 
achs, and  give  you  a  feed  from  the  new  bag  of 
oats  to-night — oh,  but,  Xanthos,  you  wouldn't 
have  been  there  then!  A  curse  on  this  life,  a  curse 
on  this  cold — there's  a  stirring  in  the  air  above 
us:  if  it  was  dark,  we  should  see  the  northern 
lights  now,  green  and  red,  all  the  sky  a  flaming 
hell  of  cold.  And  Charles's  Wagon  would  be  roll- 
ing without  horses  along  the  ice  of  the  Milky  Way, 
and  the  stars  would  be  staring  at  us:  'What  are 
you  doing  here,  and  what  sort  of  a  game  are  you 
playing?' — You  must  be  as  hungry  as  me,  poor 


MELCHIOR  lOI 

Xanthos,  and  worse :  you  have  the  load  to  draw. 
At  the  next  inn  we  must  put  up,  we  must  have 
something,  whatever  happens.  Here  we  are  al- 
ready, Xanthos.  Now  look  smart  and  lively,  as  they 
do  at  inns,  so  that  folk  shan't  know  what  a  fix 
we're  in." 

It  was  a  tumble-down  inn  with  dents  in  the 
walls  on  both  sides  of  the  stove,  and  windows 
broken  in  bouts  of  fisticuffs.  In  comparison  with 
other  straight-lined  and  orderly  houses,  the  whole 
place  seemed  ruined  by  drunkenness.  All  the  fam- 
ily inside  drank,  too,  and  a  stout,  hot-tempered 
serving-maid  tried  in  vain  to  keep  trade  going. 

Melchior  was  much  afraid  of  her  and  cracked 
his  whip  loudly,  so  as  to  keep  up  his  spirits. 

"Here  are  tired  and  hungry  travelers.  Give  us 
the  best  you've  got!"  The  girl  stood  on  the  steps 
and  looked  him  up  and  down. 

"Asking  is  one  thing  and  paying's  another,"  was 
her  answer.  They  had  had  business  with  each 
other  before,  and  she  would  thank  him  to  let  her 
see  a  little  money  first. 

Melchior  beat  his  breast  at  the  insult  and 
thought  the  echo  sounded  manly  and  encouraging. 
Was  that  a  welcome?  Should  he  punish  her  by 
going  away  again?  No,  she  was  practically  un- 
educated, and  one  must  pass  it  over.  Pie  pushed 
her  back  with  a  seemly  jest.  "If  it's  surety  you 
want,  I  suppose  horse  and  man  will  be  enough, 


102  PER  HALLSTROM 

valued  together — how  many  hundreds  shall  we 
say?" 

This  impressed  the  girl  and  she  promised  a 
warm  meal,  Xanthos  was  led  to  his  measure  of 
oats  in  the  stable,  and  Melchior  to  the  kitchen; 
he  preferred  this  to  the  inn  dining-room,  for  he 
wished  to  see  people  about  him  and  be  gracious 
and  condescending.  The  old  father  and  mother 
were  sitting  in  apathy,  staring  into  blue  flames. 
Melchior  roused  them  to  a  consciousness  of  each 
other  and  of  the  world,  had  wood  put  upon  the 
fire,  and  was  thawed  and  cheered  by  the  warmth: 
he  ordered  brandy  and  treated  the  company,  felt 
kindly  towards  them  all,  and  was  glad  to  be  alive. 

He  chatted  about  his  journey,  his  horse,  and 
the  state  of  his  affairs:  all  were  equally  splendid. 
He  boasted  how  he  had  taken  it  out  of  a  horse- 
dealer  who  had  forced  himself  upon  him,  he  im- 
provised meetings  with  persons  of  quality  upon  the 
road,  he  recovered  his  life  as  it  had  been  in  former 
days,  though  in  a  more  imposing  form.  Everything 
had  over  it  a  glamour  such  as  he  had  never  before 
imagined;  he  clung  to  it  anxiously  and  repeated 
his  words,  from  a  desire  to  keep  himself  here  as 
long  as  possible.  The  drunken  couple  heard  him 
with  delight,  they  were  glad  to  be  able  to  under- 
stand what  he  said,  and  nodded  and  shook  their 
heads  in  admiration. — "Now  he  must  go  into  the 
town  and  amuse  himself.  It  was  a  fine  thing  to  get 


MELCHIOR  103 

away  from  home  now  and  again.  He  was  quite 
free,  of  course.  But  he  must  hurry  away,  before 
it  got  late." — They  both  agreed,  envied  him  his 
pleasure,  and  never  dreamed  of  pressing  him  to 
stay,  as  of  course  he  ought  not  to  do  either. 

Time  passed,  and  he  had  to  pay  up  and  go.  He 
felt  in  his  trousers'  pocket — he  had  forgotten  his 
purse !  He  felt  in  his  coat — his  pocket-book  too  1 
Well,  he  could  leave  security,  the  skin  from  the 
sledge,  for  Instance. 

The  girl  gave  him  sour  looks.  She  had  been 
humbugged,  but  she  would  not  take  the  rug  from 
him. — "Humbugged?  What  are  you  talking 
about?  Me  to  humbug  people?  Mind  what  you're 
saying!  You  can  have  the  rug,  I  don't  need  it; 
haven't  I  got  my  coat,  and  aren't  I  as  hot  as  fire?" 
— And  he  threw  out  the  skin  and  went,  not  at  all 
annoyed ;  he  was  still  thinking  delightedly  what 
excellent  folk  they  were  and  how  he  had  enjoyed 
himself  with  them. 

The  weather  was  worse  now  and  the  short  day 
was  over.  The  air  was  a  dirty  gray  in  the  twilight, 
with  only  the  whirling  of  snow-flakes  for  a  sky. 
Woods  and  bogs  were  still  there,  indeed,  but  there 
was  little  to  be  seen  of  them,  only  a  dark  glimpse 
of  the  woods,  and  nothing  at  all  of  the  bogs,  an 
entangling  net  of  driving  snow  all  round.  Xanthos 
trotted  along  faster  than  ever,  well  fed  and  happy, 
and   yet   everything   seemed   motionless   and   un- 


I04  PER  HALLSTROM 

changed  about  them,  as  in  some  dream-journey. 
Melchior  lay  back  and  hardly  troubled  about  the 
reins;  he  was  tired  and  indulged  his  half-drunken 
fancies. 

"It's  a  fine  thing  to  travel  when  one  is  young, 
Xanthos;  you  and  I,  we're  going  in  to  town  to 
amuse  ourselves.  There  I'll  buy  you  a  velvet  sad- 
dle-cloth, like  grandfather  had  in  the  war.  He 
was  a  man,  if  you  like ;  he  fought  with  the  Russians. 
We  youngsters  used  to  play  with  the  saddle-cloth; 
it  had  a  wreath  of  great  yellow  topazes  in  silver, 
that  shone  like  wolves'  eyes.  The  wolves  were 
around  him,  and  there  was  a  ring  of  shining  points, 
two  by  two,  but  they  didn't  dare  to  come  on,  be- 
cause the  stones  danced  and  shone  as  the  horse 
galloped,  and  the  beasts  were  afraid  and  howled 
in  the  cold,  and  were  left  behind.  That's  the  thing 
to  have  to  keep  those  beggars  off,  else  they'll  soon 
have  you  by  the  throat.  You  shall  have  one,  Xan- 
thos, you  shall  be  fine.  Your  name's  fine,  too, 
Xanthos;  it's  Greek.  It's  the  only  thing  I  remem- 
ber of  all  that  I  have  learned;  except  for  that  I 
don't  know  so  much  more  than  you  .... 

"We  go  on  and  on,  though  we  don't  want  to. 
Something  drives  us;  we  don't  know  where  we're 
going.  We  think  we  know  people  and  are  friends 
and  like  them;  but  at  the  best  they  only  sit  and 
stare  at  you  and  wonder  why  you  take  up  their 
time  and  drink  their  punch.   It  doesn't  matter.  Up 


MELCHIOR  105 

hill  and  down  dale — it's  fine  to  be  rocked  and  feel 
the  snow  on  you  when  you're  warm,  Isn't  it?" 

The  snow  fell  thicker  and  thicker;  his  coat  was 
white  and  his  cap  white,  and  on  beard  and  eye- 
brows great  flakes  collected.  Melchior  dozed  off 
in  agreeable  fatigue. 

He  woke  to  feel  his  feet  aching.  "It's  from  that 
cursed  river,"  he  thought;  "it'll  pass  off  when  we 
come  to  the  town.  If  we  only  get  there  soon!" 

The  road  bent  sharply;  on  a  hill  a  dull  gleam 
flickered  from  a  cottage  window;  close  to  the 
sledge  lay  a  barn,  as  rounded  and  white  as  a  cat. 

"Hallo!"  cried  Melchior,  "we  must  have 
reached  the  short  cut,  where  the  river  goes.  We've 
had  enough  of  winding  roads.  Down  there,  Xan- 
thos." 

Xanthos  dived  into  the  ditch  and  out  again,  the 
snow  breaking  like  water  over  his  shoulders.  "It'll 
soon  be  better,"  thought  Melchior;  "we  must  find 
the  track  soon."  The  snow  whirled  into  the  sledge 
and  up  against  him.  Melchior  tried  to  bury  his 
head  in  his  collar,  but  the  wind  was  blowing  hard 
on  one  side,  and  the  ice  on  his  mustache  increased 
till  it  became  as  big  as  his  fist  and  weighed  him 
down.  He  sat  wondering  if  he  had  not  been  a  fool 
to  leave  the  rug  behind,  and  a  fool  to  turn  off  the 
main  road,  for  the  snow  was  still  just  as  deep. 

Suddenly  the  flakes  ceased  falling,  the  white 
whirl  was  swept  away,  and  the  sky  was  left  clear 


io6  PER  HALLSTROM 

and  dark,  with  a  pale  flaming  over  It.  Melchlor 
no  longer  knew  whether  he  were  awake  or  asleep, 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  seen  a  light 
so  cold  and  hostile.  He  stopped  the  horse  and 
waded  up  to  It  on  his  stiffened  feet,  with  a  vague 
feeling  that  he  must  consult  with  It,  look  Into  its 
eyes  to  see  what  he  was  to  do,  seek  help  and  sup- 
port from  the  only  creature  near  him.  He  stared 
into  the  round,  large  orbs  and  was  amazed  that 
they  had  nothing  to  tell  him,  and  the  thought  now 
first  occurred  to  him  that  they  must  see  quite  dif- 
ferently from  his,  with  everything  made  bigger  by 
the  stronger  refraction  of  the  pupils — gigantic, 
strange,  and  awful. 

"There  it  Is,  Xanthos,"  he  said,  "there  it  Is!  We 
don't  know  the  way,  either  of  us,  but  we  must  try 
to  get  back,  you  must  try."  And  he  sat  in  the  sledge 
again  and  let  it  go  where  It  would. 

But  matters  grew  no  different,  except  that  their 
course  slackened  as  the  horse  grew  tired.  Melchlor, 
too,  was  tired,  a  strange  numbness  crept  In  from 
his  scalp  and  lapped  at  his  brain.  Odd  images  and 
memories  wakened;  he  spoke,  but  the  words  did 
not  get  far  beyond  his  mustaches. 

"Xanthos,  Xanthos,  where  are  we?  You  are 
Achilles's  horse,  and  I  am  Achilles,  but  what  was  it 
that  happened  to  him  and  what  was  it  I  came  out 
for?  I  was  well  off  with  Carolina,  she  was  good  to 
me,  she  smiled  at  me  when  I  left.  And  the  world 


MELCHIOR  107 

was  always  queer;  I  never  understood  It.  They 
stand  there  like  horse-dealers  and  judge  you,  fat 
rascals  with  false  aces  of  hearts  in  their  breasts 
and  nothing  else;  they  stand  on  the  steps  and  look 
at  you :  'Will  he  do,  or  will  he  not?'  Xanthos,  you 
are  good  and  you  are  handsome;  you  were  always 
the  best  thing  I  had,  and  you're  the  only  thing  left 
now.  All  the  time  I  felt  a  kind  of  pain  inside  me 
when  I  thought  about  this  journey.  You  could  speak 
before  in  the  story,  you  warned  Achilles  then — 
why  don't  you  say  something  now?  You've  got  a 
star  on  your  forehead  and  such  kind,  shining  eyes 
— if  you  could  look  at  me,  Xanthos !  I  can't  see 
you!" 

Melchior  tried  to  reach  out  towards  his  beau- 
tiful horse;  he  could  not  open  his  eyes,  for  the  lids 
had  frozen  together.  Groping  like  a  blind  man, 
he  fell  heavily  forwards,  while  Xanthos,  lost  and 
weary  and  cold,  with  a  dark  wonder  and  fear  be- 
fore his  dim  intelligence,  drew  him  on  into  the 
snow,  which  was  lightly  falling  once  more. 


A   SECRET  IDYLL 

[HEMLIG  IDYLL] 

FROM  THANATOS 

1900 


A  Secret  Idyll 
I 

IN  THE  autumn  of  1793  J^^ri  Timoleon  Gou- 
bln  was  employed  as  a  scrivener  in  the  little 
town  of  Mans. 

His  wages  were  six  hundred  francs  a  year;  he 
had  no  one  to  care  for  nor  any  to  rejoice  over. 
He  dined  out  once  a  day,  and  for  the  rest  lived 
on  dry  bread,  the  crumbs  of  which  he  carefully 
blew  away  from  his  official  papers  and  brushed  out 
of  his  cravat  with  a  contented  yet  melancholy  feel- 
ing that  he  owed  no  man  anything,  and  could  hon- 
orably live  the  life  that  was  his  lot. 

His  three  names  furnished  with  a  fair  degree 
of  completeness  an  index  of  his  soul. 

He  had  got  the  first  from  Rousseau,  and  with 
it  a  warm  breath  of  all  the  hope  and  illusion  that 
filled  the  time.  The  second  came  from  Plutarch's 
Stoic  hero.  It  had  in  it  the  coolness  and  the  ring 
of  bronze,  and  the  desire  for  greatness  which 
seemed  now  to  have  fled  the  world,  and  splendor 
from  the  flames  of  the  pyre  on  the  ruined  strong- 
hold of  the  Syracusan  tyrants,  lifting  up  the  shade 
of  the  dead  man  high  into  the  eternity  of  fame. 
The  surname  again  fettered  all  this  to  earth,  kept 
it  enclosed  within  a  poor  man's  well  brushed  coat, 

III 


112  PER  HALLSTROM 

took,  it  to  work,  in  the  mornings  and  home  to  bed 
in  the  evenings,  preaching  every  day  its  calmly 
ironical  lesson:  This  and  this  you  have  been  set 
to  do,  a  great  task  or  a  small,  and  great  if  all  your 
strength  goes  to  the  doing  of  it. 

And  this  it  did:  it  was  no  time  for  slackness 
and  indifference.  This  was  the  stern  period  of 
harvest,  and  all  around  was  burning  the  worth- 
less chaff  from  the  scamped  day  labor  of  the 
centuries. 

So  he  sat  and  copied  with  a  penmanship  that 
grew  ever  clearer  and  more  faultless,  less  and  less 
characteristic;  he  had  a  self-denying  satisfaction 
in  seeing  it  so.  He  tried  to  do  more  and  more 
every  day,  and  to  make  his  extracts  constantly 
clearer  and  more  definite.  When  his  fingers  stiff- 
ened with  the  cold,  and  that  happened  often 
enough,  for  an  oppressed  country  could  no  longer 
afford  many  fires  for  her  children  and  servants, 
he  rubbed  his  hands  against  each  other  and 
dreamed  with  head  aloft. 

In  another  and  worse  time  he  would  have  writ- 
ten verses,  and  in  his  poor  but  haughty  isolation 
would  with  listening  ears  have  wrapped  himself 
about  his  own  personality,  heightening  and  chisel- 
ing out  every  peculiarity  therein  and  building  for  it 
a  pedestal  out  of  a  half  despised,  half  longed  for 
world.  But  now  this  never  occurred  to  him,  for  the 
more  he  was  rebuffed  by  men  as  individuals,  by 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  II3 

what  they  had  brought  things  to  and  were,  the 
more  he  loved  humankind  as  it  was  meant  to  be 
and  should  be.  In  a  near  future  he  saw  all  men 
thus,  without  crime,  without  sin,  with  simple,  inno- 
cent hearts,  and  no  sign  of  wear  about  them  but 
in  their  hands,  drawing  in  with  quiet  breath  a  joy 
of  which  there  was  as  little  to  say  as  of  pure  and 
uncorrupted  air.  But  over  this  idyll,  as  in  an  an- 
tique temple,  rising  upon  steps  of  masonry  above 
tilled  fields  and  garden  copses,  he  saw  the  great 
ones  of  the  past,  Plutarch's  heroic  figures,  with 
long  and  measured  steps,  as  befits  dead  men, 
mounting  guard  between  the  pillars  and  stooping 
down  to  welcome  the  newcomers  who  had  made 
themselves  worthy  to  attain  their  circle.  That  was 
the  place  for  those  on  whose  broad  breasts  the 
lightest  breath  of  Joy  herself  rested  too  heavily, 
who  wrapped  the  Nessus-shirt  of  suffering  in  proud 
folds  about  them,  wearing  it  without  a  tremor 
and  hardly  deigning  a  glance  at  the  bliss  they 
thereby  secured  for  others.  It  was  there  he  longed 
to  be. 

He  was  only  twenty-two  years  old  and  had 
shaped  his  ideal  as  well  as  he  knew  how. 

About  him,  far  and  near,  he  saw  men  who  be- 
lieved themselves  to  be  upon  the  way  he  sought 
to  tread:  in  the  France  of  the  Terror  there  was 
no  lack  of  self-devotion  or  of  heroism.  But  for 
him,  with  his  look  accustomed  to  the  pose  that 


114  PER  HALLSTROM 

only  a  heroic  death  can  give — and  that  not  at 
once,  but  In  an  enlarging  of  the  figure  through  the 
ages — these  living  great  ones  could  not  be  great 
enough  for  models,  there  was  a  lack  of  gravity 
about  them.  Unlike  the  blood  of  legend,  which 
never  soils  and  sullies  the  dagger  or  the  sword, 
the  blood  that  now  ran  red  disgusted  him,  and  he 
had  no  desire  to  Increase  Its  flow,  however  neces- 
sary were  the  shedding.  He  abode  his  time,  till 
he  should  feel  that  this  had  come  and  could  see  the 
shadows  beckon,  and  If  It  never  came  at  all,  that 
was  better  than  losing  his  way  in  following  It 
along  gloomy  paths.  Meanwhile  he  did  his  duty, 
humble  though  it  was,  feeling  his  conscience  clear, 
and  smiling  little  and  talking  even  less,  and  held 
himself  very  erect  with  his  three  names. 

The  civil  war  rolled  against  the  town  and  back 
again,  flooding  the  country  with  hatred  and  terror 
and  defiance  and  suffering.  Jean  TImoleon  ob- 
served it  all  with  stoical  calm  and  a  feeling  that 
now  perhaps  his  testing-time  was  drawing  near, 
and  that  If  so  he  was  ready  to  meet  it. 

Meanwhile  he  worked  and  wrote  as  fast  as  he 
could  for  the  cold,  and  ate  his  dry  bread  and 
made  his  wretched  couch  in  the  evenings,  so  that — 
his  greatest  luxury — he  might  read  himself  to 
sleep  by  lamplight  over  his  Plutarch,  and  sleeping 
dream  not  at  all,  as  is  fitting  for  him  who  is  wait- 
ing for  his  fate. 


A  SECRET  IDYLL 


115 


II 

One  night  he  went  home  earher  than  usual,  for 
the  day  had  been  unquiet  and  often  disturbed. 
The  Vendean  army,  hke  a  hunted  animal,  had 
hurled  itself  with  the  boldness  of  despair  against 
Mans  and  the  foe,  and  had  met  its  fate  outside 
the  town.  After  a  fierce  and  uncertain  fight  it  had 
been  crushed  and,  as  the  sun  went  down,  scattered 
and  whirled  away  like  withered  leaves  towards  the 
darkness  and  destruction.  During  the  varying  for- 
tunes of  the  day  there  had  been  a  constant  stream 
of  people  to  the  mairie  with  their  doubts,  their 
lamentations,  and  their  patriotic  advice.  Goubin 
had  not  been  able  to  write  much,  but  had  had  to 
practise  his  smile  of  calm  and  stoical  confidence 
and  even  to  speak  unwilling  words  of  encourage- 
ment or  disapproval.  But  when  the  battle  was 
over  he  made  good  the  time  he  had  lost,  while  the 
stillness  spread  about  him  as  when  storm-tossed 
water  subsides  and  settles  back  into  its  place,  when 
the  pressure  is  weakened. 

In  the  streets  It  was  still  far  from  quiet.  Many 
of  the  Insurgents  had  blindly  and  rashly  taken 
refuge  there,  since  there  were  objects  to  hide  be- 
hind and  shadows  to  cover  them.  They  were 
hunted  now  by  any  who  willed;  no  quarter  was 
given,  for  they  themselves  had  long  since  rooted 
that  word  out  of  the  language.  Cries  and  death- 
rattles  sounded,  rifle  shots  pierced  the  silence  and 


ii6  PER  HALLSTROM 

the  darkness,  and  lit  up  for  a  flashing  moment 
walls  and  corners  that  seemed  to  hang  floating 
from  the  veil  of  night,  pale  faces  that  looked  like 
feverish  visions  of  terror  and  were  snatched  back 
into  the  darkness,  as  though  they  lacked  reality, 
while  the  echo  of  the  shot  died  away. 

The  lanterns  of  the  patrols  shed  a  dull  gleam 
upon  the  metal  parts  of  weapons  and  the  buttons 
of  uniforms;  behind,  all  was  an  obscure  mass  ot 
wandering  shadows,  out  of  which  the  soldiers' 
measured  tramp  and  clatter  sounded  in  curious 
contrast  to  the  formless  void.  It  was  as  though 
the  darkness  was  fighting  with  itself  In  anguish, 
striving  for  life  and  shape,  as  though  all  the  souls 
which  had  been  sent  to  wander  in  the  unknown  had 
remained  before  closed  doors  like  beggars  driven 
out,  mumbling  their  ineffectual  prayers  to  be  al- 
lowed to  stay.  One  might  have  said  that  the  mighty 
age  itself,  rich  In  destruction  as  also  In  new  births, 
was  lying  tossing  on  its  couch  in  delirium  and  crea- 
tive dreams. 

In  the  cold,  damp  air  there  came  from  the 
frost-bitten,  sodden  leaves  of  the  gardens  a  smell 
of  sweetish  fermentation  and  of  soil,  which  In 
some  way  suggested  blood  and  made  breathing 
heavy. 

Goubin  walked  carefully  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  fearing  lest  he  should  set  his  foot  on  some- 
thing foul  and  slippery.  He  held  his  head  erect 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  117 

and  took  refuge  in  the  Stoic  world  of  his  imagina- 
tion, that  he  might  not  be  frightened  by  the  sights 
he  saw  around  him. 

"It  will  be  good  to  shut  It  out,"  said  he,  "to  lie 
in  bed  with  the  book  and  forget.  To-morrow  it  will 
be  gone,  the  sun  will  soon  break  through  the  mist 
and  will  shine  only  on  deeds  of  valor.  The  world 
will  once  more  be  for  the  bright  and  the  strong, 
the  maples  will  still  burn  red,  though  they  are 
thinning.  All  will  be  different  then." 

On  an  open  square  a  dog  joined  him.  It  came 
with  a  feeble  whine  from  the  darkness,  was  afraid, 
prowled  about,  and  came  back  again.  It  sniffed 
shyly  at  him  and  seemed  thus  with  its  dark  instinct 
to  be  assuring  itself  that  here  was  the  protector  it 
needed.  It  followed  close  behind  him,  started 
away  at  any  movement,  ran  on  In  front  and 
stopped,  afraid  of  some  unknown  object,  until  he 
nearly  stumbled  over  It.  All  the  time  It  uttered  the 
same  gentle,  appealing  whine. 

He  belonged  to  the  Vendeans,  thought  Goubln. 
Perhaps  he  has  seen  his  master  fall  and  was  fright- 
ened by  the  stiffness  of  his  limbs;  and  now  all  that 
was  his  light  and  providence  Is  gone,  and  he  under- 
derstands  nothing  and  Is  oppressed  by  the  dark- 
ness. 

It  seemed  to  him  the  shyest  and  most  helpless 
thing  in  all  this  helplessness  and  terror,  and  though 
he  would  not  encourage  It  by  a  word,  he  let  it  fol- 


Ii8  PER  HALLSTROM 

low  him,  half  convinced  that  he  would  not  be  able 
to  help  taking  it  In. 

He  will  disturb  me,  he  thought,  and  interrupt 
my  reading;  and  I  have  hardly  food  to  give  him — 
but  nothing  is  settled  yet,  and  perhaps  he  will  go 
away  of  himself. 

But  the  dog  did  not  do  so;  on  the  contrary,  it 
drew  Its  magic  circle  all  the  closer,  so  as  to  compel 
his  sympathy. 

When  Goubin  reached  his  door,  the  animal  un- 
derstood by  the  slackening  of  his  footsteps  that 
this  was  where  he  lived,  and  bounded  In  before 
him  as  If  It  had  known  the  way. 

There  was  a  little  light  from  a  window  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  and  Goubin  stopped  to 
look  at  his  companion. 

It  stood  still,  whining  as  before,  wagging  Its 
tail  and  fawning  on  him,  but  with  Its  attention  dis- 
tracted by  something  else  behind  It.  The  half-gate 
stood  as  usual  lifted  off  Its  hinges  and  supported 
against  the  wall;  in  the  space  behind  It  something 
moved.  Goubin  put  In  his  head  to  see  what  It  was. 

Huddled  up  In  the  damp  and  the  dirt,  like  a 
rat  hunted  to  exhaustion  and  awaiting  the  death- 
blow, a  human  form  lay  crouching,  perfectly  still 
now,  with  eyes  fixed  on  his,  perfectly  silent,  with 
breath  caught  In  a  last  despairing  hope  of  not 
being  seen.  The  darkness  scattered  before  his 
look  and  he  saw  that  it  was  a  woman. 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  119 

He  thought  of  passing  on  and  taking  no  notice 
of  her,  going  up  to  his  book  and  his  rest  in  a 
feeling  that  by  so  doing  he  was  fulfilling  her  de- 
sire and  showing  his  compassion.  But  his  pity  had 
been  roused  by  the  episode  with  the  dog,  and  the 
infinitely  desperate  state  of  her  position  became 
clear  to  him.  A  refugee,  of  course,  he  thought. 
Sooner  or  later  she  will  be  discovered  and  killed. 
Even  if  the  darkness  and  cold  were  all,  I  could 
not  leave  her  thus. — And  without  reflecting,  he 
whispered:  "Come  out  and  follow  me!" 

She  obeyed  him  in  silence,  creeping  out  and  ris- 
ing to  her  feet.  She  was  young  and  fragile,  and 
in  spite  of  the  semi-darkness  he  could  see  that  her 
wet  and  shapeless  clothes  hinted  at  better  condi- 
tions. He  signed  to  her  to  go  into  the  shadow,  and 
she  vanished  into  it  as  though  the  night  had  re- 
ceived her  again.  He  turned  to  the  dog.  It  was 
at  once  clear  to  him  that  he  could  not  shelter 
both,  for  people  would  hear  the  dog  whining 
as  they  passed  the  doors,  and  would  come  out 
to  see. 

"Go  thy  way,"  he  said,  and  It  grieved  him  much 
to  say  It;  "go  thy  way,  thou  art  not  the  most  help- 
less here!" 

The  dog  saw  that  Its  shy  hopes  were  at  an  end, 
and  slunk  away  with  the  same  gentle  whining. 

Goubin  turned  to  the  other. 

"Follow  me,  mademoiselle,  very  quietly!"  And 


i2o  PER  HALLSTROM 

the  night  gave  her  back  again,  and  she  followed 
him  like  a  shadow. 

He  bade  her  wait  at  the  door,  while  he  slipped 
downstairs  again  in  order  to  fetch  his  lighted 
candle,  as  he  always  did,  from  a  couple  of  working- 
people  who  lived  on  the  ground  floor.  He  heard 
the  dog  still ;  it  was  howling  now  with  all  the  aban- 
doned despair  that  may  lie  in  the  sound,  and  at  a 
distance  others  answered  it  between  the  shots. 
Goubin  shuddered,  with  a  feeling  that  all  this 
fright  and  terror  touched  him  now  quite  otherwise 
than  before,  but  yet  without  collecting  his  thoughts 
to  a  realization  of  what  he  had  done. 

"An  awful  night,  citizen,"  said  the  artisan's 
wife,  as  she  snuffed  the  wick.  "Fair  enough,  though, 
for  those  who  are  no  longer  concerned  in  the 
business.  Now  at  last  we  can  begin  to  feel  our 
lives  safe  and  have  only  to  bar  our  doors,  citizen." 

"Only  that,  citizen."  And  he  took  his  candle- 
stick and  went,  still  unable  to  think. 

He  carefully  unlocked  the  door  and  admitted 
his  guest.  She  instinctively  turned  away  from  the 
light,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  face,  and  did 
the  same  when  she  had  passed  the  threshold.  He 
set  the  light  on  the  table  and  paced  to  and  fro  in 
the  little  room  in  an  attempt  to  bring  his  mind  to 
view  his  situation. 

It  was  very  serious,  for  this  was  no  less  than 
treason  that  he  had  committed,  and  he  was  risking 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  121 

his  own  life  by  acting  as  he  had  done.  Life  in  itself 
did  not  count  for  so  much.  He  had  accustomed 
himself  to  think  of  it  as  fuel  which  one  is  prepared 
to  cast  upon  the  fire  should  occasion  demand.  That 
was  its  proper  end,  and  that  was  what  the  great 
men  had  done  of  whom  he  had  read  and  in  whose 
presence  he  lived.  But  to  fling  it  away  as  a  worth- 
less thing  out  into  darkness  and  shame,  with  no 
momentary  gleam  of  splendor  lighting  it,  to  sacri- 
fice it  for  a  despised  cause  which  he  himself  hated, 
— that  he  could  not  so  easily  bring  himself  to  do. 
What  was  she,  that  dark  shadow  over  there,  who 
had  suddenly  brought  a  menace  into  his  exist- 
ence? One  of  the  thousand  furies  of  the  Vendeans, 
who  in  wild  recklessness  had  accompanied  them 
and  fired  their  cruelty,  one  who  under  other 
circumstances  would  have  seen  his  life  stamped 
out  with  as  much  indifference  as  if  he  had  been 
a  creeping  thing  trampled  beneath  the  horses' 
hoofs ! 

He  felt  her  look  fastened  upon  him,  doubtless 
as  helplessly  and  beseechingly  as  it  must  have  been 
just  now,  when  the  darkness  hid  it  as  was  only 
right.  A  look  of  a  hunted  rat,  of  a  wounded  animal 
at  bay,  a  look  in  which  there  was  mingled  all  the 
helplessness,  the  fear,  and  the  distress  that  placed 
human  beings  among  the  lowest  of  the  low.  His 
own  eyes  shone  with  resentment  as  he  raised  them 
to  her. 


122  PER  HALLSTROM 

Mon  Dieti!  How  young  she  was,  and  what 
strange  eyes  she  had  I 

All  that  he  had  expected  was  contained  in  them, 
but  so  infinitely  different,  and  blended  with  so  in- 
finitely much  besides. 

Helplessness?  Yes,  certainly,  or  else  they  would 
have  lied,  and  that  they  could  not  do. — Distress 
there  was,  but  such  as  would  never  let  a  sound  pass 
the  lips,  and  was  felt  not  only  for  herself  but  for 
all  who  were  fallen  and  broken. — Fear,  too,  but 
not  exactly  for  death,  and  enveloped  in  modesty, 
pride,  and  a  thousand  delicate  and  sensitive  things. 
All  at  once  he  understood  what  this  girl  must  be 
feeling,  alone  here  at  night-time,  and  dependent 
on  a  stranger's  pleasure.  That  gave  him  imme- 
diately a  strange  joy  and  sense  of  power,  a  sudden 
glimpse  of  the  possibilities  that  these  poor  walls 
might  contain,  but  close  upon  that  shame  and  pity, 
and  fear  of  what  his  eyes  might  have  betrayed. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  he 
wished  to  make  respectful  but  which  amid  all  these 
conflicting  feelings  became  only  constrained,  "you 
have  fled?" 

She  seemed  to  take  it  as  a  taunt.  Her  eyes 
flashed  with  indignation,  and  the  lids  sank  over 
them  to  hide  the  tear-drops.  But  she  looked  up 
again  at  once,  too  proud  to  hide  anything,  too 
proud  to  make  a  secret  of  that  which  was  obvious. 

"Like  all  the  others,"  she  answered  curtly.  And 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  123 

then  at  once,  to  empty  the  cup  of  humiliation  with- 
out more  ado  and  reach  the  bottom  of  sincerity: 
"When  I  lay  there  under  the  gate,  I  could  have 
begged  for  my  life." 

She  meant  also,  and  Goubin  understood  it:  "But 
now  I  beg  no  more."  But  what  he  especially  no- 
ticed was  the  ring  of  her  voice.  It  was  strangely 
childish,  notwithstanding  its  depth.  It  gave  an 
impression  of  never  having  been  able  to  say  any- 
thing but  the  truth,  as  if  it  would  have  become 
cracked  and  changed  otherwise,  like  a  bell  which 
has  been  flung  from  its  high  position  and  can  never 
get  back  its  tone. 

The  face  entirely  answered  the  voice,  as  very 
seldom  happens.  The  large  eyes  perhaps  did  not 
see  so  much  or  very  rapidly,  but  they  looked  al- 
ways straight  in  front ;  they  shone  still  brighter  as  if 
against  a  background  of  dark  seriousness  held  in 
reserve.  The  rather  high  forehead  was  smooth  and 
finely  arched,  as  befits  calm  thought  and  dreamless 
sleep.  The  mouth,  too  childlike  to  be  firm,  bore 
a  melancholy  that  disguised  itself  in  a  light  girlish 
sullenness,  displayed  to  discourage  unwelcome  ad- 
miration. Her  mouth  was  the  only  thing  that 
prompted  the  reflection  that  her  life  might  have 
been  like  the  lives  of  others. 

All  this  was  now  pale  and  wearied,  the  high 
bonnet  crushed,  the  dress  spotted  and  heavy  with 
wet.  As  she  stood  there  she  seemed  to  be  a  por- 


124  PER  HALLSTROM 

trait  in  which  time  had  worn  away  all  the  unessen- 
tials,  but  had  lacked  the  heart  to  touch  the  beauty 
of  the  features  otherwise  than  with  a  slightly  soft- 
ening breath. 

Goubin's  voice  showed  all  the  respect  he  desired 
it  should  contain. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "I  asked  but  to  con- 
firm my  supposition.  I  am  almost  a  stranger  here, 
and  I  know  not  where  to  take  you  into  safety,  if 
any  safe  place  is  to  be  found.  You  see  here,  all  that 
I  can  offer  you,  and  you  must  share  it  with  me. 
Were  I  to  go  out,  suspicions  would  be  aroused, 
you  understand;  everything  must  take  its  usual 
course.  The  bed  is  yours;  I  myself  will  sleep  here 
in  my  chair." 

She  rapidly  followed  his  words  and  saw  at  once 
that  they  could  not  be  gainsaid.  She  nodded  her 
consent  without  a  sound,  but  in  the  look  that  met 
his  all  her  thoughts  lay  childishly  revealed.  There 
was  gratitude,  which  knew  not  how  far  it  ought 
to  go,  or  whether  it  was  friend  or  foe  that  met  it; 
there  was  shy  apology  for  the  sacrifices  she  was 
claiming;  there  was  questioning  disquiet:  "Who 
are  you,  of  what  nature  is  your  soul,  do  you  speak 
the  same  language  as  I?"  And  finally  there  was 
grief  and  weariness,  and  longing  for  the  solitude 
of  the  dark. 

Goubin  replied  at  once  to  her  mute  questions. 

"I  am  not  of  your  party,  mademoiselle;  I  have 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  125 

hated  your  cause."  This  made  no  difference  to  her 
look,  which  remained  no  less  questioning.  An  even 
prouder  calm  came  into  her  eyes  as  they  left  him 
and  traveled  round  the  room. 

"I  am  quite  poor,  mademoiselle," — -until  now, 
when  he  saw  her  there,  he  had  never  thought  how 
mean  his  circumstances  were,  and  he  blushed  for 
them — "quite  poor,  and  I  have  not  much  to  offer 
you.  You  must  be  hungry.  I  have  only  milk  and 
bread." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  refusal  and  went  and 
sat  down  on  ttie  bed.  By  this  she  seemed  to  wish 
to  show  him  that  as  his  hospitality  was,  so  she 
took  it,  simply,  without  its  being  bound  to  con- 
tinue, with  no  claim  upon  his  pity,  but  with  the 
gratefulness  and  confidence  that  was  proper  be- 
tween equals.  She  looked  very  tired  where  she  sat. 

The  bed  was  poor  and  hard,  with  a  patched 
quilt,  the  brick  floor  very  cold,  bare,  and  dirty, 
the  walls  spotted  with  damp.  The  tall,  narrow 
linen-chest  showed  by  the  looseness  of  its  drawers 
how  empty  most  of  them  were.  The  writing-table 
halted  and  froze  upon  thin  legs.  Goubin  looked 
around  him  with  a  curious  Interest,  and  he  thought: 
I  have  been  quite  happy  here.  Now  I  may  lose  it 
any  time. — And  he  longed  for  his  book  and  his 
solitude.  In  the  angle  of  the  wall  against  the  slop- 
ing roof  he  saw  his  shadow,  sloping  too,  cut  off 
just  at  the  neck.   He  had  never  noticed  it  before, 


126  PER  HALLSTROM 

and  he  stared  in  wonder  at  it.  That,  maybe,  he 
thought,  is  just  what  awaits  us  both. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  calmly,  "I  will  put  out 
the  light  now.  I  hope  that  you  will  rest  well,  for 
you  have  need  of  it."  And  he  blew  out  the  candle. 

"Good  night,  monsieur!"  Her  voice  sounded 
doubly  childish  in  the  darkness,  and  rang  for  a 
long  time  in  his  ears.  He  wrapped  his  cloak  about 
him  and  stretched  himself  in  his  easy-chair.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

He  heard  her  damp  clothing  rustle  as  she  took 
it  off,  and  he  was  glad  at  her  confidence.  He  heard 
her  fall  on  her  knees  and  pray  to  gods  that  were 
not  his.  How  strange  it  was  !  Yesterday  they  knew 
nothing  of  each  other,  and  their  thoughts,  had  they 
met  under  the  stars,  would  have  passed  by  like 
silent  birds  without  suspecting  it,  each  follow- 
ing its  own  track.  Now  the  darkness  held  them  in 
the  same  embrace,  perhaps  to  meet  the  same  fate, 
and  yet  they  were  no  less  strangers  than  before. 
He  heard  her  lie  down  in  the  bed,  and  guessed 
at  her  shiver  of  cold  and  insecurity  as  she  did  so, 
then  heard  her  gently  turn,  and  with  quiet  breaths 
dissolve  in  sleep. 

He  himself  could  find  no  rest;  he  seemed  to  be 
lying  and  listening  to  fate,  and  he  longed  once 
more  for  his  poor,  vanished,  untroubled  world  and 
strove  in  vain  to  bring  it  into  accord  with  this 
strange  and  wonderful  experience. 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  127 

For  a  long  time  the  dog  was  heard  outside.  At 
last  its  howling  ended  in  a  cry  and  a  hubbub  of 
voices,  and  was  still. 

He  dozed  off  to  sleep  in  the  cold,  and  all  things 
were  lost  to  him. 

Ill 

He  woke  several  times,  listened  in  astonishment 
to  her  breathing,  and  fell  asleep  again.  When  it 
was  almost  light,  he  rose  and  silently  made  ready 
to  leave. 

She  was  sleeping  quietly,  looking  very  tired 
still,  gray  and  pale  amid  the  grayness  and  the  pale- 
ness, softly  folded  up  in  slumber  like  a  frozen  and 
withered  flower-bud.  Now  that  he  could  not  see 
her  eyes  she  seemed  more  of  a  stranger  than  ever — 
what  had  she  to  do  with  his  life?  Like  a  hunted 
exhausted  bird,  straying  in  through  an  open  win- 
dow, she  had  come  there  and  he  had  sheltered 
her.  Could  she  not  be  let  out  again?  Had  he  not 
merely  to  open  the  window  and  let  chance  rule, 
as  in  a  thousand  other  cases?  For  him  she  meant 
danger — unsought,  irrational — she  meant  death 
itself.  And  death,  not  as  the  delivering  genius  of 
the  stories,  the  death  which  he  knew  and  revered, 
but  as  the  crowning  absurdity,  with  shame  and 
dishonor  to  follow.  Was  it  for  this  that  he  had 
shaped  his  life,  not  without  a  struggle,  to  the  purest 
of  purposes,  for  this  that  he  had  kept  his  robe 
proud  and  unspotted  and  his  will  firm?  It  was  not 


128  PER  HALLSTROM 

from  the  danger  that  he  shrank,  but  from  the 
treachery  against  all  that  unborn  part  of  him  that 
longed  to  come  to  life  and  act.  Should  he  himself 
be  the  traitor,  he  his  own  Judas,  hanging  himself 
with  the  wages  of  his  treachery? 

But  he  was  very  much  afraid  of  waking  her 
from  the  sleep  she  so  much  needed. 

He  carefully  set  out  on  the  table  what  he  had 
of  food  and  drink,  and  wrote  on  a  scrap  of  paper 
beside  it :  "Keep  perfectly  quiet  till  I  come  home  1" 

And  with  a  continued  irresolution  that  distressed 
him  he  stole  out  very  softly,  trembling  at  the  noise 
of  the  key  in  the  lock. 

Down  in  the  street  he  saw  the  dog  again.  It  had 
been  given  a  great  wound,  probably  by  some  im- 
patient patriot  who  was  indignant  at  its  howling, 
and  all  the  more  so  since  he  knew  to  whom  it  had 
belonged.  It  lay  now  in  a  pool  of  blood,  pressed 
against  a  wall,  looking  at  every  one  who  passed 
by.  Quite  still  it  lay,  in  that  silence  of  dumb  ani- 
mals before  death  which  is  at  once  so  humble  and 
so  dignified.  The  brown  eyes,  which  had  been  so 
dark  and  had  seen  and  understood  so  little,  hardly 
more  than  an  uncertain  feeling  for  this,  an  un- 
certain terror  of  that,  were  now  wonderfully  clear 
and  animated.  They  contained  neither  fear  nor 
hope,  but  only  begged,  in  their  submissive  com- 
plaint: O  shadow,  gliding  before  my  eyes  more 
clearly  than  I  have  ever  seen  you  glide  before, 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  129 

help  me  out  of  the  world  of  shadows,  where  I  no 
more  belong;  help  me  from  my  torments,  you  who 
surely  can  do  so  I 

Goubin  went  up  to  It,  and  as  the  animal's  head 
sank  confidingly  into  his  hand,  he  put  a  pistol  to 
its  temple  and  freed  it  from  its  pain.  He  repented 
bitterly  that  he  had  deceiv^ed  its  confidence  the 
night  before,  and  shuddered  at  its  last  convulsion; 
but  regrets  and  shuddering  and  all  his  conflicting 
thoughts  of  an  hour  ago  were  dissolved  in  a  calm 
and  deep  compassion  for  all  that  was,  all  the  un- 
quietness  that  feared  to  rest. 

With  his  customary  sure  and  rapid  steps,  as  of 
a  man  who  lets  the  future  be  the  future  and  holds 
himself  erect  upon  the  firm  ground  of  the  present, 
he  proceeded  to  his  work  and  attended  to  it  as 
usual,  with  even  shorter  dreams  than  ordinary. 

When  he  got  home,  the  stranger  was  sitting 
motionless  in  his  chair,  and  she  met  the  candle- 
light with  eyes  that  only  slowly  freed  themselves 
from  the  darkness  into  which  they  had  been  staring. 

"Were  you  afraid  at  my  steps,  mademoiselle? 
You  could  not  know  that  it  was  I,"  he  added,  at 
her  silent  question. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  know  nothing  of  you,  either,"  she  answered. 
"You  are  bound  by  nothing." 

He  did  not  trouble  to  reply  to  her  insinuation : 
he  was  content  at  her  tone.  So  there  was  to  be  no 


130  PER  HALLSTROIVI 

question  of  thanks,  which  would  have  made  him 
blush,  and  no  embarrassing  weakness.  He  had 
saved  her,  as  he  was  bound  to  do ;  she  had  accepted, 
as  she  again  was  bound  to  do ;  and  whether  they 
succeeded  or  failed,  the  matter  was  now  finished 
with.  She  had  her  world  and  he  his;  there  was  a 
wall  between  them,  and  so  he  would  have  it  be. 

"No  one  has  disturbed  you,  mademoiselle?" 

"No  one.  I  have  sat  here.  The  day  grew  to  twi- 
light and  the  twilight  to  darkness,  and  I  have 
hardly  thought  of  anything.  There  is  nothing  to 
think  of  more. — Or  is  there?"  Her  eyes  flashed, 
rising  suddenly  like  a  winged  creature  shaking  the 
darkness  from  it.  "Is  there?  You  will  tell  me, 
sir?  Our  cause,  my  cause?" 

"It  must  have  been  ended  yesterday.  Only  the 
death-struggle  left."  It  almost  grieved  him  to 
say  so. 

Her  face  grew  calm  again. 

"As  I  said,  nothing  to  think  of.  The  death- 
struggle  is  a  matter  of  nerves  and  blood,  nothing 
more.  But  the  world  is  very  empty  without  thought, 
and  one  shivers  in  it."  And  she  gently  shook  her- 
self and  began  to  pace  the  room. 

He  had  brought  back  food  for  them  both  and 
he  laid  it  on  the  table.  He  invited  her  to  eat  and 
she  helped  herself  very  sparingly.  Goubin,  too,  ate 
little;  it  seemed  to  him  only  like  some  curious 
game  to  be  sitting  there. 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  131 

Suddenly  she  glanced  at  him  and  blushed,  like 
one  who  has  forgotten  his  duty. 

"You  ought,  perhaps,  to  know,  sir,  who  I  am 
and  what  is  my  history.  Since  you  may  perhaps 
come  to  die  for  me,  I  mean,  unless  you  think  better 
of  it.  One  should  always  know  what  one  dies  for." 

The  childlike  quality  of  her  voice  was  stranger 
than  ever  as  she  said  these  words.  "Die"  and  "dies" 
sounded  as  if  a  spring  had  suddenly  kept  back  its 
bubbling  murmur,  and  the  silence  of  the  grotto 
behind  had  advanced  darkly  and  deeply  over  it. 
There  was  also  a  mocking  irony  in  these  last  words, 
which,  perhaps,  said  more  than  they  intended. 

"Only  the  name,  mademoiselle!"  The  rest  was 
easy  to  guess.  The  childhood  in  an  old  castle,  with 
the  tree-tops  of  the  park  forming  thick,  peaceful 
clouds  to  the  eye,  with  the  sun's  good-night  in  the 
west,  shining  calmly  upon  the  calm,  proud  souls 
of  equals.  Mass  in  the  private  chapel,  with  the 
jubilation  of  bells  above  the  altar  when  the  miracle 
was  accomplished  and  God  Himself  stepped  down, 
reverenced  and  adored,  and  yet  in  some  way  come 
upon  appeal,  like  everything  else  in  an  exalted  and 
well  tended  existence.  The  world  below  and  out- 
side unknown  and  not  regarded.  Then  unrest  over 
the  whole,  its  murmurs  increasing  as  strange  years 
passed  by,  a  menace  like  the  cry  of  circling  hawks 
In  autumn,  incomprehensible  messages  by  post,  the 
rattle  of  the  weather-cocks  during  the  delibera- 


132  PER  HALLSTROM 

tlons  of  sleepless  nights,  long  doubt  and  sudden 
resolution.  Then  the  war,  the  crusade  against  that 
which  would  defy  both  Providence  and  Nature's 
laws,  the  men  all  in  the  saddle,  the  women  wait- 
ing, exalted  and  intoxicated  by  the  moaning  of  the 
wind  in  the  silence  and  the  first  reports  of  victory. 
Impossible  to  remain  there  in  the  stillness!  Away 
to  where  the  horns  echoed  and  the  hunt  was  being 
decided!  Out  to  help,  if  not  with  the  hands,  at 
least  with  the  fiery  and  inflaming  desire  of  the 
soul!  And  the  mothers'  blessings  and  the  priests' 
consecrated  banners,  and  the  joy  of  riding  and 
adventure,  and  then  disaster  and  defeat. 

A  world  of  circumscribed  and  violent  thoughts 
which  had  no  place  in  the  present,  a  world  of  spec- 
tres, as  though  the  family  portraits  in  the  galleries, 
with  no  other  substance  than  the  pride  supporting 
their  pose,  had  stepped  down  from  their  frames 
and  gone  out  to  throttle  in  a  nightmare  the  souls 
that  aspired  to  life. 

He  would  hear  nothing  of  this  in  the  tones  of 
that  fresh  voice.  "The  name  only,  mademoiselle." 

"As  you  will."  She  seemed  to  understand  his 
reluctance.  "Charlotte  de  .  .  .  ." 

"That  will  suflice,  Mademoiselle  Charlotte.  My 
name  is  Jean  Timoleon  Goubin.  And  since  we  have 
nothing  to  talk  about,  and  it  is  still  so  early,  per- 
haps you,  like  me,  would  wish  to  read?  I  have  a 
few  books  there." 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  133 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur  Jean,  not  now;  it  would 
be  but  words  for  me.  For  reading,  too,  one  must 
have  firm  ground  under  the  foot.  Mine  has  given 
way.  No,  it  is  not  sad  at  all,"  she  added,  seeing 
his  look,  "one  can  float  about  so  freely.  One  feels 
oneself  already  a  part  of  the  wind  and  the  dark- 


ness." 


She  looked  so,  as  she  sa»t,  with  her  dark  eyes 
dilated  and  the  energy  of  her  slender  figure  con- 
tained within  itself.  Now  and  then  she  would  blink 
to  drive  away  a  memory  that  was  about  to  become 
too  clear,  an  anxious  thought  for  some  one  dear 
to  her,  and  the  reflection  of  the  light  in  her  eyes 
fell  like  dying  sparks.  A  part  of  the  wind  and  the 
darkness?  A  part,  rather,  of  that  unknown  force 
which  lifts  the  souls  of  men  to  enthusiasm  and  de- 
sire for  the  great,  and  of  itself  can  fill  them  with 
the  sheer  joy  of  living — in  this  case  lost  and  doubt- 
ing, having  cast  away  the  worthless  toys  it  played 
with. 

Goubin  often  looked  at  her  over  his  book,  she 
seemed  no  longer  a  stranger  at  all,  although  he 
had  not  wished  to  know  anything  of  her;  she  was 
as  a  memory  of  the  best  moments  of  his  lonely 
dreams.  She  suggested  to  him  also  migrating  birds 
borne  along  amid  darkness  and  storm,  or  song  that 
waited  silent  in  the  whirlwind  and  the  roar.  Would 
it  sink  and  thus  be  choked,  or  would  it  one  day  rise 
into  the  solitudes  of  air  and  light?  That  was  all 


134  PI^R  HALLSTROM 

one  to  him.  In  uncertainty,  as  now,  he  would 
choose  to  have  it;  he  was  content  to  feel  his  fate 
knit  with  hers,  whether  once  only  or  for  ever. 

His  book  sank  down,  and  she  noticed  it. 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  she  said,  rising.  "It  is 
better  to  rest.  Sleep  is  good,  and  it  were  wisest 
perhaps  to  grow  accustomed  to  it." 

Goubin  put  out  the  light  and  took  possession 
of  his  chair.  He  found  it  still  harder  to  sleep  than 
on  the  previous  night.  He  was  cold,  his  thoughts 
flew  hither  and  thither  and  had  to  be  checked;  his 
sleep,  when  it  came,  was  short  and  disturbed  by 
dreams.  The  stranger  fell  on  her  knees  as  before, 
and  prayed  to  her  gods  for  the  lost  cause  which 
she  would  no  longer  recognize  even  to  herself,  lay 
for  a  time  silent  and  motionless  in  the  darkness, 
and  then  slept  very  tranquilly,  breathing  lightly. 
Probably  she  had  her  mouth  a  little  open,  Goubin 
thought,  and  he  imagined  how  child-like  it  would 
be  with  that  melancholy  and  disconcerting  look 
gone  from  it. 

IV 

So  passed  a  week  or  more,  and  Goubin  began 
to  grow  accustomed  to  his  new  life,  strange  though 
it  was. 

He  did  his  work  as  usual  and  had  his  usual  one 
meal  out,  so  as  not  to  arouse  suspicions  by  any 
change  in  his  hours  and  habits;  he  walked  with  his 
confident   and  measured   steps   and  held  himself 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  135 

erect  and  unapproachable.  But  he  had  more  and 
more  a  feeling  that  he  was  walking  in  his  sleep  on 
dangerous  paths,  where  an  unexpected  cry  would 
be  enough  to  make  him  start  and  lose  his  footing 
and  fall  to  destruction.  He  felt  his  nature  divided 
in  two,  hke  a  celestial  body,  which  shows  only  one 
of  its  halves  to  the  eyes  of  men;  the  other,  turned 
towards  the  stars  and  the  secrets  of  space,  did  not 
know  itself  but  lay  beyond  reach  of  words  and 
language  or  of  the  sun  and  the  vicissitudes  of  life, 
lay  shining  with  a  strange  light  towards  death  and 
that  which  lies  behind.  There  the  stranger  had  her 
place,  she  who  existed  but  for  him. 

He  had  never  been  in  love  and  did  not  love  now 
either,  if  by  that  be  meant  longing  and  unrest.  His 
blood  took  its  usual  flow  to  and  from  the  heart, 
and  his  look  was  calm  and  clear  as  ever. 

In  the  world  of  his  imagination  women  had  had 
little  place.  Hardly  detached  from  the  wrapping 
of  words  as  he  read,  they  had  flitted  past  in  stiff 
white  robes  in  the  shape  of  Portia,  Cato's  daugh- 
ter, or  the  mother  of  the  Gracchae — calm  beings 
whose  whole  soul  was  yielded  in  a  proud  reply, 
and  who  immolated  themselves  in  the  second  rank, 
behind  the  main  action.  Or  else  they  had  been  in- 
significant creatures  who  were  only  there  to  make 
the  web  of  fate  more  many-colored  and  myste- 
rious, the  embodiment  of  apostasy  from  thought, 
of   weakness    and    foolishness,    shadows    merely, 


136  PER  HALLSTROM 

which,  though  he  could  never  understand  why,  had 
had  power  to  lead  men's  looks  astray.  In  life  about 
him  they  had  hardly  occupied  him  at  all.  Half  in 
shyness  and  disdain,  and  half  in  pity,  he  had  looked 
upon  them  as  creatures  that  strangely  disturbed  an 
existence  which  lay  otherwise  so  even  for  the  path 
of  duty. 

So  it  was  very  little  the  thought  that  she  was  a 
woman  which  made  the  stranger  play  her  part  in 
his  life;  her  very  helplessness  was  a  protection 
there.  But  the  danger  to  which  she  gave  shape  re- 
vealed darker  depths  on  that  account.  That  which 
was  alien  in  her  became  still  more  unknown  and 
enticing  to  the  thought;  she  became  twice  as 
strange,  cast  into  his  world  as  a  constant  surprise. 

In  the  mornings  he  avoided  looking  at  her,  but 
he  knew  that  she  was  only  feigning  sleep,  and  all 
the  day  he  found  himself  longing  for  her  look. 
When  he  came  home  in  the  evenings  his  hand 
trembled  on  the  lock,  and  he  had  to  hear  her  child- 
like voice  before  he  could  regain  his  calm.  She 
had  washed  and  repaired  her  dress,  her  face  was 
fresh  and  rested,  and  he  saw  that  she  grew  pret- 
tier every  day.  He  himself  was  worn  out  with  cold 
and  lack  of  sleep,  and  ascribed  to  this.  In  great 
measure,  his  curious  condition  of  mind;  he  even 
began  to  fear  sickness,  should  it  have  to  continue 
longer. 

In  the  evenings  by  candlelight  he  had  begun  to 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  137 

read  aloud,  so  as  to  keep  his  thoughts  on  his 
book  and  soar  once  again  into  the  expanse  that 
had  given  him  peace  before,  that  he  might  meet 
her  there,  calm  where  all  was  calm  and  great,  and 
not  disquieting  and  mysterious  as  elsewhere.  He 
chose  his  beloved  Plutarch,  and  she  listened  gladly 
and  eagerly;  it  delighted  her  to  hear  more  of 
these  great  ones  of  the  past,  whose  very  names 
had  in  former  days  filled  her  with  wonder  and 
rung  in  her  ears,  she  knew  not  why,  like  the  sound 
of  bells  in  the  wind.  She  had  often  asked  her 
teachers  about  them — mild  abbes  with  eyes  that 
had  grown  used  to  gliding  rapidly  and  respectfully 
past  superiority  in  every  form — and  they  had  an- 
swered her  with  a  bow  in  their  tone,  no  less  for 
her  than  for  the  faded  memories  of  school-days 
and  the  altered  order  of  things:  "Miltiades, 
mademoiselle," — or  "Dion,  mademoiselle,  a  man 
who  died  long  ago,  distinguished  for  heathen  vir- 
tues, but  who  does  not  immediately  concern  us, 
mademoiselle."  And  by  that  she  had  under- 
stood that  even  if  they  might  have  had  more  to 
say,  it  would  hardly  have  been  worth  her  while 
to  listen. 

And  now  it  was  opened  to  her,  this  world,  close 
enough  to  give  an  impression  of  new  and  amazing 
life — yet  far  enough  to  admit  of  a  general  view 
and  the  introduction  into  the  story  of  that  note 
which  charms  the  fancy:  "Once  upon  a  time."  She 


I3i)  PER  HALLSTROM 

was  entirely  held  by  it,  and  all  her  thoughts,  like 
the  floating  homeless  creatures  they  were,  went  out 
to  meet  it  in  its  arrested  dying  beauty,  like  dark 
birds  which  take  flight  so  close  upon  the  setting 
sun  that  they  may  be  thought  to  follow  it.  Her 
figure  was  mere  expectant  energy,  as  before,  but 
her  look  now  reflected  a  calmness  as  of  wide,  rest- 
ing clouds. 

But  Goubin  did  not  read  well.  Like  most  of 
those  who  sternly  treat  their  own  words  like  care- 
less servants,  he  never  grew  closely  acquainted 
with  the  words  of  others.  There  passed,  too,  into 
his  voice  something  of  the  restraint  and  self- 
discipline  that  stamped  his  life;  the  writing  never 
became  anything  but  black  on  white.  He  heard  it 
himself,  and  stammered  with  impatience  when  he 
saw  that  she  too  felt  it, 

"You  must  be  tired.  Monsieur  Jean,  let  me  read 
to  you."  And  she  took  the  book  and  read,  and 
now  for  him  also  all  became  new,  this  that  he  still 
recognized  so  well  that  each  episode  followed  the 
other  with  the  sureness  of  remembrance.  Where 
he  sat  and  gazed  at  her,  the  light  flowed  out  be- 
fore his  eyes  in  a  golden  mist  supporting  her  and 
behind  her  the  pictures  of  his  fancy,  all  things 
together,  near  and  far,  like  the  events  of  the  day 
when  one  is  tired  and  thinks  one  has  been  through 
them  before  in  some  dream  or  previous  existence, 
and  wonders  what  they  mean,   and  yet  already 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  139 

knows  it  in  that  inmost  shrine  to  which  no  words 
can  reach. 

The  silver  echoes  of  her  childlike  voice  increased 
and  swelled;  her  soul,  made  for  action,  as  the 
storm  for  flight,  swept  into  the  silent  world  of 
shadows,  gave  them  blood  to  drink,  made  them 
quiver  anew  with  the  desires  of  life,  and  carried 
their  words  back,  imparting  to  them  the  passion 
and  proud  calm  that  had  been  theirs  at  the  begin- 
ning, when  they  had  trembled  like  arrows  burying 
themselves  in  the  target; 

Now  and  again  they  would  break  off  their  read- 
ing and  listen  to  some  unfamiliar  sound.  The  dan- 
ger was  near  them  all  the  time,  and  they  felt  Its 
suppressed  breathing  at  their  ears.  Some  one  need 
only  come  outside  the  door  and  distinguish  a 
strange  voice  for  suspicions  to  be  aroused.  Soon 
afterwards  the  metal  fittings  of  fire-arms  would 
rattle  against  the  bricks,  gruff  voices  would  cry: 
"In  the  name  of  the  law,"  and  the  door  would  fly 
open  and  reveal  death  standing  darkly  on  the 
threshold.  They  were  not  afraid  of  it;  they  almost 
longed  for  it,  and  the  present  with  all  that  it  con- 
tained became  the  dearer  for  this  uncertainty. 
Without  pausing  to  be  reassured,  they  would  turn 
once  more  to  their  stories  and  continue  reading, 
and  the  light  that  flickered  as  it  bent  inwards  in 
the  draught  was  the  only  thing  that  showed  uneasi- 
ness within  this  poor  and  narrow  room. 


140  PER  HALLSTROM 

But  no  one  came,  and  they  continued  evening 
after  evening.  They  preferred  to  linger  over  the 
latest  pe/iods,  when  the  sun  of  happiness  had  al- 
most withdrawn  from  Hellas  and  its  caresses  were 
all  the  dearer,  as  the  evening  light  is  wont  to  be, 
between  long  shadows  in  air  that  has  grown 
chilly — over  Philopoemen,  Agis,  or  Cleomenes.  It 
was  thus,  upon  the  verge  of  ruin,  that  they  loved 
their  heroes  best,  and  thus,  they  felt,  their  longing 
for  a  past  and  vanished  world  came  nearest  to  ful- 
filment. 

When  Philopoemen,  leading  his  band  of  youths 
with  purple  robes  under  their  mantles,  entered  the 
theatre  just  as  the  singer  was  singing  :  "For  Greece 
I  bind  upon  my  brows  the  wreath  of  liberty" — and 
the  air  trembled  with  applause,  with  sobs,  and 
jubilation,  and  the  rows  of  seats  fluttered  white, 
as  though  a  flock  of  birds  were  taking  wing,  right 
up  to  where  the  deep  blue  heaven  began  above  the 
topmost  row — then  their  own  breasts  swelled  in 
unison  with  all  these  long  since  broken  hearts,  in 
the  same  illusion  and  the  same  sad  certainty  that 
all  was  but  illusion. 

When  Agis  passed  through  the  land  with  his 
young  and  silent  troop  of  warriors,  their  hair 
flowing  far  down  over  their  shoulders,  their  hands 
closed  tight  about  their  weapons,  their  eyes  bright 
with  the  joy  of  sacrifice,  their  lips  shut  firmly  over 
their  smile, — the  whole  as  still  as  a  vision  of  spec- 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  141 

tres,  as  dignified  as  rows  of  figures  on  an  urn  with 
the  ashes  of  dead  men,  which  History  musingly 
turns  round  and  round  before  our  lowered  gaze — 
then  they  sat  motionless  in  a  grief  which  in  its 
exaltation  came  near  to  being  a  kind  of  joy. 

And  in  the  last  flaming  vision  of  Cleomenes' 
wild  march  of  destruction  through  the  tyrant's 
court,  of  his  dead  body  nailed  upon  the  cross  in 
a  lion-skin  with  the  sunken  head  still  smiling  and 
inspiring  fear  by  its  defiance,  they  saw  victory  in 
defeat,  thought  withdrawn  from  the  changes  and 
caprice  of  time  and  raised  in  triumph  over  its  fight 
with  matter,  and  they  envied  him  his  end. 

There  they  sat  in  the  shabby  room,  shivering  a 
little  with  cold,  strangely  isolated  with  the  danger 
about  them,  and  each  of  them  dreaming  in  silence, 
she  of  her  lost  cause,  which  had  been  trampled  in 
the  dust  and  seemed  so  poor  and  humble  now,  and 
yet  was  warmed  by  the  heart's  hot  flame,  he  of  his 
Ideal,  which  hesitatingly  drew  in  its  steps,  fearing 
to  soil  its  robes  in  the  world  of  the  present.  This 
unknown  girl  was  now  better  known  to  him  than 
any  other  thing.  She  entered  into  almost  all  his 
dreams,  the  only  reality  in  all  the  changing  world. 
She  was  Honor,  waiting  in  uneasy  rest,  deep-eyed 
and  clear-eyed,  gazing  before  her,  forgetful  of 
herself.  And  the  light  burned  down  in  its  socket, 
panting  as  if  the  flame  wished  to  take  flight  out 
into  the  darkness  towards  the  unknown,  where  all 


142  PER  HALLSTROIVI 

sounds  were  checked  and  fell,  where  all  things 
waited  like  her — and  silently  they  had  to  light  a 
fresh  candle  and  pursue  their  thoughts. 

One  night,  when  his  head  was  dizzy  with  fa- 
tigue and  he  could  no  longer  grasp  the  words 
otherwise  than  as  curious  echoes,  he  brought  out 
the  request  he  had  been  keeping  back. 

"Mademoiselle  Charlotte,  I  am  afraid  this  can 
go  on  no  longer.  I  have  not  been  able  to  sleep  on 
account  of  the  cold.  If  I  fall  ill,  there  will  be  no 
possibility  of  keeping  our  secret.  Will  you  give 
me  a  place  in  the  bed  beside  you?" 

She  turned  her  direct  gaze  upon  him  and  thought 
rapidly  over  his  words.  "Certainly,"  said  she ;  "why 
did  you  not  tell  me  before?  It  grieves  me  to  think 
you  have  been  cold." 

Her  confidence  came  as  easily  as  a  child's  hand- 
shake after  its  first  shyness.  It  gladdened  Goubin's 
heart,  and,  though  he  had  not  expected  it,  her 
consent  now  seemed  to  him  so  natural  and  obvious 
that  he  blushed  at  his  former  hesitation.  When 
the  light  was  out  and  he  lay  by  her  side,  he  fell 
asleep  very  soon  with  a  delicious  sense  of  fatigue 
and  peace,  such  as  he  could  not  remember  having 
felt  since  childhood,  when  the  days  were  longer 
and  the  nights  deeper  and  softer  than  ever  they 
had  been  since. 

But  towards  morning  he  dreamed. 

All  was  discovered,  the  door  into  the  porch 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  143 

stood  open,  and  the  darkness  nodded  threaten- 
ingly behind  the  grim  faces  of  the  other  inmates 
of  the  house,  who  had  dropped  their  ordinary 
looks  with  their  everyday  clothes  and  business,  and 
now  stared  coldly  and  severely  from  between  the 
bayonets.  They  were  taken  before  the  tribunal. 
Their  case  was  soon  decided,  almost  without 
words,  only  with  looks  filled  with  strange  memo- 
ries, fusing  together  persons  and  times  that  were 
long  distant,  confounding  trifles  and  important 
things,  staring  at  him  and  all  that  his  life  had 
contained  in  a  deep  and  stony  surprise  that  it 
should  finish  so.  But  he  was  not  surprised;  he  felt 
clearer  and  lighter  than  ever  before.  He  looked 
at  his  companion  and  found  In  her  the  same  calm, 
and  behind  her  head  the  expanses  of  the  legends 
and  the  splendor  from  their  common  enthusiasm. 
This  is  Honor,  he  thought;  out  of  the  darkness 
she  came  to  me,  silently,  with  a  finger  on  her  lips, 
and  without  a  word  she  points  out  to  me  the  way. 
Why  should  voices  rise  about  her  and  the  sun  of 
day  shine  on  her?  Is  she  not  what  she  is  without 
these?  A  proud  silence  is  her  nature;  to  follow 
unseen  her  earliest  summons,  that  Is  happiness, 
that  Is  all. 

Bound  on  a  cart,  they  were  taken  with  the  swift- 
ness of  dreams  to  Nantes,  where  the  end  was  to 
be,  down  along  the  Loire.  It  was  night  all  the 
time,  and  the  waters  of  the  river  with  their  gray 


144  PER  HALLSTROM 

gleam  gave  the  only  light  there  was.  Groves  and 
villages  lay  blacker  than  all  else  upon  the  black 
fields.  Darkly  against  the  darkness,  a  world  of 
up-piled,  shadowy  clouds  was  outlined  against  the 
sky. 

They  stood  before  the  death-tribunal  and  citizen 
Carrier,  of  whom  report  said  so  much.  He  was  not 
terrifying  at  all ;  like  a  shadow,  grotesquely  length- 
ened and  quivering  in  the  trembling  of  the  light 
that  cast  it,  he  stood  there  and  dared  not  meet 
their  gaze.  He  was  the  intoxication  of  destruction, 
he  was  the  absurd  terror  of  death,  and  he  vanished 
to  nothing  before  a  proud  glance,  after  having 
pointed  towards  the  river.  Still  gray  and  dully 
shining,  it  was  turning  in  slow  eddies  as  it  met  the 
tidal  water  from  the  sea,  and  a  thousand  strange 
and  pallid  figures,  upright  and  stiff,  were  rocking 
in  its  surges. 

Now  Goubin  understood  what  It  meant.  It  was 
there  they  were  to  be  taken.  Into  those  cold  depths, 
whose  dull  gleam  was  that  of  Hades  and  the  Styx, 
they  were  to  be  flung,  and  they  would  choke  and 
sink  and  rise  and  be  gently  drawn  towards  the 
infinitude  of  ocean  and  as  gently  sucked  back  again, 
following  the  pulse  of  the  tide  under  the  mys- 
terious forces  of  the  moon  and  space.  His  only 
fear  was  that  they  would  not  both  suffer  together, 
that  they  would  be  parted.  But  already  they  stood 
on  the  deck  of  the  barge,  which  was  slippery  with 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  145 

tears  and  spray,  stood  there  close  together, 
with  firm  footing — nothing  to  grieve  for  longer, 
therefore,  the  wind  fresh  on  their  foreheads, 
salt  foam  upon  their  lips,  and  peace  within  their 
breasts. 

Some  one  was  occupied  with  their  hands;  some- 
thing cut  sharply  into  the  skin — what  was  it?  Ah, 
they  were  binding  them  together,  and  together 
they  would  sink.  Like  two  flames  melting  into  each 
other,  two  bubbles  which,  breaking,  are  enlarged 
to  one,  their  souls  would  be  crushed  by  destruction 
and  from  beneath  the  pressure  would  rise  towards 
unknown  spaces.  As  love  folds  two  beings  together, 
first  in  the  look  and  desire,  then  in  kisses  and  flame, 
and  a  new  life  is  born  from  their  meeting,  mys- 
terious, unexplainable,  theirs  and  no  longer  theirs 
alone  but  also  something  new,  so  now  death  would 
drink  both  their  lives  in  the  same  breath,  and  what- 
ever came  of  it,  annihilation  or  new  birth,  they 
would  assuredly  be  one.  What  did  it  matter,  then, 
which  it  was — their  looks  met  in  the  same  thought 
— what  did  it  matter?  Nothing,  nothing  at  all; 
their  eyes  blazed  to  their  inmost  depths  of  cer- 
tainty and  joy,  they  were  bound  together  like  twin 
stars  to  shine  upon  each  other  through  the  ages. 
She  and  Honor,  whose  accents  had  been  heard  in 
his  best  moments,  she  and  the  Unknown,  with  all 
the  secrets  of  a  woman's  fate!  Joy  seized  upon 
him  so  powerfully  that  the  dream  broke,  as  it  does 


146  PER  HALLSTROM 

with  every  violent  feeling;  its  gray  world  dissolved 
like  mist  before  the  sun,  and  he  opened  his  eyes. 

The  daylight  shone  half  in;  beside  him  lay  the 
stranger  sleeping  with  that  look,  of  infancy  which 
slumber  always  gives,  sleeping  with  the  peril  out- 
side, perhaps  in  the  same  dream  as  his,  perhaps 
as  far  remote  from  it  as  heart  can  be  from  heart. 
His  joy  was  gone,  he  felt  only  a  quiet  satisfaction 
in  the  protection  he  had  given  her,  and  he  gently 
stole  from  the  bed. 

V 

So  several  more  days  and  nights  passed  by.  As 
before,  they  spoke  little  to  each  other,  they  met  in 
thought  over  the  book  or  else  in  dreams,  and  that 
was  sufficient  for  them.  It  seemed  to  Goubin  as 
if  words  and  talk  were  out  of  place  between  them, 
as  though  his  very  feeling  for  her  presupposed  a 
proud  silence  for  its  existence,  and  would  have 
become  forced  and  ugly  if  it  had  been  mentioned. 
It  hardly  existed  to  the  outward  view  and  to  the 
day,  but  in  the  depths  it  lingered  mute,  though 
concentrated  and  enclosed  within  itself;  only  in 
the  heightened  world  of  dreams  did  it  gravely 
move  among  the  shadows.  Their  position,  too, 
was  such  that  every  approach  to  an  ordinary 
tone  was  at  once  checked  of  itself,  all  light- 
heartedness  became  not  only  thoughtless  cruelty 
but  a  danger. 

He  was  very  happy  as  things  were,  perhaps 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  147 

just  because  they  could  hardly  remain  so  longer — 
their  freedom  from  discovery  became  a  greater 
marvel  every  day.  As  often  as  he  could  he  tried 
to  learn  something  of  the  possibilities  for  her  flight 
from  the  town.  Through  his  position  he  at  last 
found  a  way:  suspicions  had  been  reported  against 
a  family  which  was  assumed  to  be  in  connection 
with  the  rebels,  and  an  arrest  was  intended.  Goubin 
at  once  made  his  plans;  he  resolved  to  let  his  pro- 
tegee warn  them  and  join  herself  to  them  in  flight. 
It  was  treason  twice  over,  but  he  was  himself  sur- 
prised to  find  that  the  matter  seemed  to  him  en- 
tirely obvious  and  simple. 

In  the  evening  he  disclosed  his  plan  to  her. 

"Mademoiselle  Charlotte,  you  may  now  be 
free.  You  may  now  go  back  to  those  from  whom 
you  came."  And  he  informed  her  in  brief  words 
what  she  had  to  do. 

She  received  the  news  as  calmly  as  all  else,  with 
only  a  suppressed  shiver  before  the  change  await- 
ing her,  such  as  a  bird  might  know  if,  having  lost 
its  power  of  flight  for  a  time,  it  had  regained  It 
and  turned  dizzy  before  the  adventure.  There  was 
not  a  trace  of  gladness  in  her  looks. 

"I  had  not  thought  it,"  she  said;  'T  thought  all 
was  finished.  But  if  it  be  that  life  is  offered  me — 
and  why  should  it  not  be  so? — there  is  but  one 
answer  to  give.  And  you.  Monsieur  Jean,  whom 
I  have  already  had  to  thank  for  every  day,  when 


148  PER  HALLSTROM 

each  hour  has  made  its  importance  felt  as  perhaps 
the  last  in  life,  to  you  I  am  now  indebted  for  an 
unknown  portion  of  the  future,  whether  long  or 
short  I  know  not,  nor  yet  how  great  its  value." 

And  after  that  they  had  not  many  words  to  say 
to  one  another. 

They  sat  and  waited  for  the  night.  The  book 
was  left  lying,  for  neither  had  peace  of  mind  to 
read.  They  only  looked  at  each  other  now  and 
again;  Avhen  their  gaze  met,  they  smiled  slightly, 
as  was  never  their  wont  before,  and  with  a  forced 
air  of  encouragement.  She  sat  and  looked  about 
her  in  the  narrow  room  with  an  interest  that  was 
new  to  her.  It  seemed  that  already  for  her  it  was 
beginning  to  belong  to  the  world  of  memory,  where 
all  is  precious  more  or  less,  and  nothing  is  un- 
lovely in  its  wondrous  peace.  But  it  was  very  cold 
and  bare,  very  small,  and  Goubin,  as  he  stared  and 
slightly  shivered,  with  a  numbness  in  his  brain  as 
when  one  is  aroused  from  sleep  and  not  yet  fully 
awake,  wondered  how  it  would  look  afterwards, 
when  all  was  as  before  and  yet  so  different  now 
that  this  had  happened.  The  light  burned  audibly 
in  the  stillness,  and  their  thoughts  echoed  audibly. 
The  air  seemed  changed,  as  though  the  wall  of 
danger  which  had  hitherto  encircled  them  was  now 
removed:  they  felt  a  curious  emptiness. 

When  the  hour  had  come,  they  rose  up  to  go. 
Their  eyes  met,    as   they  used  to  meet  in  their 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  149 

dreams,  and  the  depths  shone  out  grave  and  clear. 
And  with  a  feeling  of  mysterious  bonds,  of  in- 
visible fetters  as  from  star  to  star,  they  turned 
from  the  room  which  alone  was  to  know  that  their 
lives  had  met,  and  passed  out  into  the  darkness. 

Goubin  went  with  her  to  her  destination,  saw 
her  vanish  like  a  shadow,  and  retraced  his  steps. 

VI 

Some  years  afterwards,  when  the  land  was  be- 
ginning to  grow  quiet  again,  he  received  a  letter 
secretly.  He  knew  at  once  from  whom  it  came, 
and  in  the  somewhat  stiff  and  nervous  hand  he 
thought  he  could  discern  her  restrained  movements 
of  energy  in  reserve,  the  expression  round  the 
mouth  with  its  melancholy  suUenness,  on  the  watch 
against  approach  or  admiration,  which  must  have 
accompanied  the  movements  of  the  fingers  as  chil- 
dren's faces  do  when  they  write,  and  the  look 
which  deliberated  whether  every  word  was  so  true 
that  it  might  have  been  uttered  by  that  voice. 

The  letter  ran  thus: 

TO  MONSIEUR  JEAN  TIMOLEON  GOUBIN: 

He  who  has  received  a  benefit  would  gladly 
thank  his  benefactor  with  something  more  than 
words.  He  who  has  to  thank  another  for  his  life 
possesses  that  life  no  longer.  Like  a  Roman  son, 
he  holds  it  but  as  a  loan  which  may  be  taken  back 
where  it  was  given. 


150  PER  HALLSTRUM 

My  life  Is  now  yours,  and  perhaps  also  upon 
other  grounds  than  this. 

I  was  very  happy  with  you.  The  air  was  light 
there,  life  seemed  richer  with  her  face  ever  half 
averted  as  in  parting.  That  time  has  gone:  life 
now  looks  full  upon  me.  Will  you  accept  it  hand 
in  hand  with  me? 

I  am  free  and  almost  alone  now.  I  have  wealth 
enough.  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  I  have  need  of 
no  one,  and  have  little  taste  for  anything  that 
compassion  may  give. 

CHARLOTTE  DE  COMBALET. 

Goubin  read  it  over  several  times  and  then 
paced  up  and  down  his  room,  more  in  reverie  than 
In  hesitation.  He  was  very  happy  and  lived  over 
again  in  succession  all  that  he  could  recapture  of 
those  wonderful  days,  as  he  had  for  long  been 
doing  with  their  separate  fragments.  He  walked 
as  though  exalted  by  a  calm,  festive  joy,  and  all 
that  he  looked  upon  in  his  poor  surroundings  took 
on  the  special  meaning  it  had  acquired  when 
she  was  there,  and  met  his  consciousness  with 
the  fullness  and  significance  which  objects  have 
in  dreams.  When  the  candle  had  burnt  out,  he 
lit  a  new  one  and  sat  down  to  write  his  an- 
swer without  searching  for  words,  merely  list- 
ening to  an  inner  voice  and  fixing  It  upon  the 
paper: 


A  SECRET  IDYLL  151 

MADEMOISELLE  : 

I  was  very  happy  when  you  were  here.  I  still 
enjoy  your  presence,  as  when  one  listens  to  the 
echo  of  a  song  that  is  dead.  One  lives  in  it,  one 
could  wish  it  back,  and  yet  those  opening  tones, 
could  they  once  more  resound  in  the  ears,  would 
disturb  the  finished  harmony.  It  would  not  be  the 
same,  for  the  river  of  Time,  like  all  other  rivers, 
flows  not  back;  it  would  be  something  new  which 
would  bear  away  the  old  into  bluer  distances.  Life 
is  but  a  kind  of  gradual  death;  whether  it  leads 
towards  development  or  later  to  decline,  each 
moment  is  buried  in  that  which  follows,  nothing 
is  stationary;  even  the  mountain  slowly  melts  be- 
fore the  rain. 

Only  when  it  is  freed  from  the  chain  can  mem- 
ory stand  shining  and  unchangeable.  And  it  Is  so 
that  I  would  have  you. 

You  came  from  out  the  darkness,  unexpected 
and  unknown;  you  sat  in  my  poor  domain  and 
listened  quietly;  your  eyes  had  the  constancy  of  the 
stars.  You  were  honor  and  dreams  for  me,  you  are 
that  still — can  one  ever  reach  them  and  call  them 
one's  own?  To  have  merely  caught  sight  of  them 
is  much,  and  is  worth  a  high  price:  and  have  they 
stayed  with  one  so  long  that  one  has  stamped  their 
features  on  the  mind  and  now  can  always  recognize 
them  with  no  further  chance  of  error,  that  is  great 
happiness. 


152  PER  HALLSTROM 

You  have  done  so,  you  I  shall  always  recognize. 
With  danger  in  the  air  about  you,  shining  against 
its  dark  background,  you  stand  in  my  memory, 
beloved  and  revered.  That  space  is  you — without 
it  all  were  weak  and  dulled  and  mean — that  space 
is  you  forever. 

JEAN  TIMQLEON  GOUBIN. 


DON  JUAN'S   RUBIES 

[DON  JUANS  RUBINER] 
FROM  RESEBOKEN 

1898 


Don  Juan  s  Rubies 
I 

DON  JUAN  DE  MARANA  Y  TENORIO 
arrived  one  fine  morning  in  the  beginning 
of  October  at  Baza,  a  medium  sized  town  in  the 
province  of  Granada.  He  had  come  through  Car- 
tagena from  Naples,  and  was  on  the  way  to  his 
native  town — Sevllla,  as  all  the  world  knows — 
In  order  to  begin  a  new  life  there.  This  was  not 
his  Intention  on  starting,  but  during  the  journey 
by  sea,  when  the  incommodiousness  of  the  vessel 
had  admitted  of  only  the  scantiest  attention  to  his 
toilet,  and  the  passage  was  uneven,  Don  Juan  fell 
to  thinking,  which  he  had  never  done  before,  and 
to  thinking  gloomy  thoughts,  which  he  had  had 
still  less  opportunity  of  doing.  During  a  heavy 
storm  in  the  night-time  he  seemed  to  see  the  tops 
of  the  waves  becoming  an  awful  shining  fire  of 
sulphur  blue,  and  all  these  tongues  stretching  in 
a  most  unpleasant  manner  precisely  at  himself,  as 
though  to  lick  him  up.  There  came  Into  his  mind 
all  kinds  of  stories  about  Purgatory  which  priests 
and  monks  had  told  him  when  he  was  a  child,  and 
the  truth  of  which  he  had  never  doubted,  though  his 
contempt  for  the  said  priests  and  monks  had  after- 
wards made  him  turn  away  from  It  with  a  grimace. 

155 


156  PER  HALLSTROM 

During  his  stay  in  Cartagena,  where  he  had  passed 
the  time  away  with  a  love  intrigue,  this  impression 
had  been  somewhat  weakened,  but  now  during  this 
last  ride  in  the  fresh  morning  air  it  came  again, 
stubborn  and  unwelcome,  and  was  in  some  way 
connected  with  the  even  tramp-tramp  of  their 
ambling  nags.  It  especially  annoyed  him  constantly 
to  hear  his  servant  Graceo  close  behind  him  think- 
ing that  perhaps  it  would  be  just  the  same  down 
there.  Graceo  followed  the  fashion  of  the  time 
for  lackeys  in  affecting  a  certain  clown-like  wit 
which  brought  him  both  more  silver  pieces  and 
fewer  cuffs  than  any  other  method  of  procedure, 
but  which  in  the  end  became  a  little  tiresome  to 
his  master.  The  bare  thought  of  the  stiffly  sloping 
head  and  the  forced  smile  under  the  turned-up 
mustaches  amid  all  kinds  of  infernal  torments  was 
unpleasant — yet  It  was  difficult  enough  to  have 
patience  with  him. 

During  all  this  Don  Juan  was  further  reminded 
by  the  wind  that  whistled  In  his  half-boots  of  his 
worst  personal  defect,  his  sturdy,  well-filled  calves, 
which  for  some  years  had  been  no  longer  fashion- 
able :  on  the  contrary  they  should  be  very  thin  now. 

From  what  has  been  said  it  will  easily  be  gath- 
ered that  Don  Juan  was  no  longer  in  the  gladness 
of  his  youth  and  the  sunshine  of  his  fortunes.  He 
was,  in  fact,  approaching  the  age  when  the  possi- 
bilities   for    enjoying   life    are    amassed   by    the 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  157 

pleasure-seeker  rather  in  an  abstract  form,  such 
as  power  and  gold,  while  the  joys  of  the  palate 
alone  yield  fully  what  they  promise. 

In  Baza,  when  his  meal  was  finished,  he  wan- 
dered about  with  his  toothpick  in  his  mouth  and 
found  all  faces  tedious,  most  of  all  that  of  Don 
Manuel  de  Ocaiias,  a  gentleman  whom  he  had 
known  many  years  previously,  when  everything 
was  brighter  except  Don  Manuel  himself.  After 
having  expressed  in  many  well  chosen  words  their 
mutual  delight  at  meeting  and  their  firm  devotion 
until  death  to  the  brother  and  friend — really  quite 
interchangeable  terms — whom  they  saw  before 
them,  they  went  arm  in  arm  to  Don  Manuel's 
house,  where  a  large  shield  with  Don  Manuel's 
coat-of-arms  was  enthroned  over  the  gate,  while 
the  lattice-w^ork  of  the  balcony  at  the  side  sup- 
ported Don  Manuel's  drying  linen.  In  a  shaded 
room  that  took  its  light  from  the  courtyard  they 
continued  to  protest  their  undying  affection  and 
their  vast  delight,  since  they  had  nothing  else  to 
say  to  each  other;  but  Don  Juan  could  not  help 
remarking  that  his  host  had  something  on  his 
mind.  At  last,  after  a  thousand  excuses,  the  latter 
took  a  purse  from  his  pocket,  picked  out  three  or 
four  coins,  which  did  not  seem  to  be  usable,  fondled 
them  with  his  fingers  and  his  look,  and  was  reluc- 
tantly preparing  to  consign  them  to  a  case.  Don 
Juan's  curiosity  was  aroused  by  the  spark  he  had 


158  PER  HALLSTROM 

suddenly  seen  flash  In  the  otherwise  unillumined 
eyes  of  his  host,  and  he  wished  to  know  the  reason. 

"Sefior  Don  Manuel,  my  deeply  revered  friend," 
said  he,  "it  has  not  escaped  me  that  the  coins  you 
have  there  are  of  quite  unusual  beauty,  and  you 
would  render  me  a  thousand-fold  your  debtor  by 
permitting  me  to  look  at  them  more  closely  and 
supporting  my  ignorance  by  explaining  to  me  their 
value." 

Don  Manuel  leaped  up  eagerly  and  gave  him 
the  coins,  though  he  need  only  have  stretched  out 
his  hand  and  passed  them. 

"This,  Seiior  Don  Juan,  is  a  Roman  silver  stater 
from  Bilbilis,  a  now  forgotten  town  In  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Calatayud,  the  stamp  is  that  of  the 
emperor  Tiberius,  as  you  yourself  can  see.  This 
is  a  Caligula  from  Osca,  the  present  Huesca,  and 
this  an  Emperor  Augustus  from  Calagurris  Julia 
Nassica,  which,  as  you  may  easily  hear,  Is  the  same 
as  Calahorra." 

Don  Juan  was  amazed  at  all  these  unfamiliar 
names  that  flooded  over  him.  "By  San  Gennaro — 
forgive  me;  I  forget  I  am  no  longer  In  Naples — 
by  all  the  saints,  Don  Manuel,  you  are  a  scholar 
then?" 

Don  Manuel  raised  his  eyebrows  and  pushed 
the  accusation  from  him  with  both  hands.  "Cer- 
tainly not,"  he  cried,  "certainly  not!  But  I  am  a 
collector,  you  observe,  and  therefore  I  have  had 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  159 

to  learn  many  things  if  I  would  not  be  cheated. 
I  have  far  better  specimens  than  these,  as  you  shall 
soon  see."  He  drew  out  several  small  cases  with 
smaller  boxes  inside  them,  which  he  began  to  take 
up.  Don  Juan  sat  there  and  stretched  out  his  hand 
for  the  coins,  lool^ed  at  them  and  handed  them 
back  again.  With  the  coin  he  was  given  every  time 
one  or  more  names,  which  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  learnt  as  a  boy  and  a  youth,  but  had  been 
wicked  enough  to  forget.  This  made  him  feel  hum- 
ble and  dejected,  and  even  Don  Manuel's  proud 
and  eager  face  gave  him  many  thoughts  which  he 
did  not  at  once  succeed  in  arranging.  To  show  that 
he  was  following,  he  seized  a  very  badly  clipped 
coin  and  held  it  up  between  his  thumb  and  finger. 

"This,  Don  Manuel,"  said  he,  "this  coin  with 
these  curious  marks,  resembling  keys  and  pincers, 
this  is  no  doubt  a  Moorish  dirrhem?" 

But  Don  Manuel  beat  down  his  mistake  from 
a  distance. 

"By  no  means,"  he  cried.  "It  is,  as  I  have  told 
you,  Seiior  Don  Juan,  an  Arabian  feltis."  And 
Don  Juan  felt  himself  still  smaller  and  realized 
that  he  had  been  mistaken  in  more  than  one  thing 
in  his  life — in  Don  Manuel  himself,  for  instance, 
who  now  almost  impressed  him.  And  while  his 
host,  as  he  showed  him  one  of  the  greatest  treas- 
ures in  his  collection,  a  Gothic  coin  with  King 
Achila's  image,  was  elaborating  a  long  argument 


i6o  PER  HALLSTROIVI 

to  the  effect  that  had  this  species  of  coin  not  been 
found,  we  should  be  so  unfortunate  as  not  even 
to  know  that  this  king  had  reigned,  Don  Juan's 
impressions  at  last  resolved  themselves  into  clar- 
ity. He  gravely  regarded  Achila's  head,  which 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  drawn  by  a  child  of  three, 
and  seeing  a  cross  on  the  reverse  of  the  coin,  he 
kissed  it  reverently. 

"Don  Manuel  here,"  thought  he,  "is  a  happy 
man:  that  must  be  as  certain  as  that  my  legs  are 
too  stout" — and  he  drew  them  under  his  chair. 
"His  eyes  show  clearly  that  at  every  step  he  finds 
a  new  goal  for  his  efforts,  just  as  Graceo's  mule 
spies  a  fresh  thistle  after  every  bend  in  the  road. 
Every  one  of  these  coins  is  a  triumph:  he  has  it 
laid  up  in  a  casket  and  can  take  it  out  and  enjoy 
it.  And  there  are  some  left  to  search  for,  probably 
a  whole  host,  for  who  can  tell  how  many  kinds 
of  coins  there  are?  These  bits  of  money  have 
slipped  away  just  like  mine,  some  one  has  bought 
with  them  pleasure  of  some  kind,  which  has  van- 
ished now,  but  Don  Manuel  has  the  coins.  What 
have  I  collected  and  gained?  It  is  I  who  resemble 
Graceo's  mule,  for  thistles  are  all  that  I  have  had !" 

This  and  much  more  Don  Juan  pondered  for 
the  first  time,  while  his  host  talked  happily  about 
King  Achila.  But  now  Don  Manuel  with  beaming 
face  held  up  another  coin,  which  he  had  kept  till 
the  last. 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  i6i 

"This,  Seiior  Don  Juan,"  said  he  ceremoniously, 
"is  a  Phoenician  coin  from  Gadir  or  Cadiz.  I 
would  not  change  it  for  any  earthly  profit.  On 
the  reverse  it  has  a  fish,  a  dolphin,  on  the  ob- 
verse a  head,  which,  as  far  as  my  knowledge  goes 
is  that  of  their  goddess  Astarte,  the  goddess  of 
love." 

As  he  stretched  out  his  hand  Don  Juan  thought : 

"The  goddess  of  love!  Have  there  been  people 
who  have  made  a  god  out  of  anything  so  entirely 
and  essentially  dull?"  And  after  looking  at  the 
round  features  of  the  head,  which  he  found  un- 
utterably stupid,  he  handed  the  treasure  back. 
"Seiior  Don  Manuel,  my  honored  friend,"  said 
he,  "I  must  express  to  you  my  wonder,  not  only 
at  your  good  fortune  and  joy,  but  also  at  the  mel- 
lifluous wisdom  by  virtue  of  which  you  would  de- 
serve still  greater  happiness,  if  that  were  possible. 
This  last  coin  alone  would  have  compensated  me 
in  full  measure  for  the  years  of  my  life,  had  I  been 
wise  enough  to  seek  for  It." 

Don  Manuel  hid  his  smile  of  triumph  beneath 
his  mustache,  and  wishing  to  show  politeness  in 
return,  he  answered : 

"Ah,  Don  Juan,  you  have  not  been  idle !  Even 
to  us  reports  of  your  doings  have  penetrated.  In 
that  sphere  you  have  driven  me  out  of  the  field. 
Who  could  have  guessed  It  when  you  came  as  a 
shy  youth  to  Salamanca,  and  we  taught  you  to 


i62  PER  HALLSTROM 

pluck  at  a  guitar  and  sing  a  seguidilla  or  practised 
the  latest  Italian  thrust  with  you?" 

Don  Juan  could  not  remember  that  his  host 
had  had  any  knowledge  to  give  away  In  these  mat- 
ters, but  he  did  not  even  trouble  to  smile  at  his 
boast.  He  let  his  gloomy  thoughts  overflow,  since 
they  had  once  been  brought  Into  the  channel. 

"Ah,  Don  Manuel,"  he  burst  out,  "you  have  not 
in  your  whole  collection  a  coin  so  small  that  It 
would  answer  to  all  that.  The  girls  of  Flanders 
weep  in  the  most  disagreeable  way  when  one  leaves 
them,  and  spoil  all  the  fine  Flemish  lace  round 
one's  neck,  and  Germans  talk  thickly  in  the  most 
difficult  of  languages  and  expect  one  to  swear  eter- 
nal faithfulness  to  them  In  it;  the  ladies  of  Milan 
eat  fried  fish,  of  which  one  grows  tired,  the  Bo- 
lognese  die  for  you  or  else  arrange  a  meeting  near 
a  couple  of  abominably  sloping  towers,  Roman 
women  have  rough  voices  and  hang  you  as  full 
of  amulets  as  a  fish  has  scales,  and  Neapolitans 
think  you  have  the  evil  eye  as  soon  as  you  look 
obliquely  at  them.  As  for  our  own  ladles — ^but 
excuse  me,  I  do  not  know  from  which  town  your 
own  senora  comes,  so  let  us  take  them  in  general — 
have  you  observed  that  they  wish  us  to  cease  eat- 
ing and  so  lose  flesh  for  love?  And  then  these 
phrases,  eternally  the  same,  so  indescribably 
enervating!  One  must  be  everlastingly  amazed  at 
the  sun — 'Is  it  Aurora  that  meets  me,  since  I  see 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  163 

that  all  the  former  objects  of  my  admiration  were 
but  stars  that  are  extinguished  now?  What  splen- 
dor is  this  that  so  pitilessly  blinds  and  scorches 
me?' — And  so  on !  I  assure  you,  Don  Manuel,  one 
grows  tired  of  these  innumerable  sunrises,  and,  as 
you  are  aware,  one  catches  cold  most  easily  at  that 
time  of  the  day." 

Don  Manuel's  tiny  eyes  gleamed  and  darted 
to  and  fro,  like  bleak  at  the  water's  edge,  in  the 
greed  and  curiosity  aroused  by  all  the  experiences 
here  hinted  at.  "Ah,  my  dear  friend,  it  must  be 
very  interesting  none  the  less,"  he  sighed  between 
lips  that  had  become  moist.  But  Don  Juan  did  not 
trouble  to  parade  a  shred  of  his  triumph  before 
him ;  he  did  not  even  feel  that  he  had  known  any 
triumphs  now. 

"When  I  look  at  your  fine  collection,  Seiior 
Don  Manuel,"  he  continued,  "I  think  in  bitter  envy, 
I  admit,  of  what  I  have  brought  together.  Locks  of 
hair,  letters,  amulets — in  most  cases  I  have  for- 
gotten where  they  belonged.  I  could  never  bring 
any  system  into  them,  and  in  many  cases  I  have 
nothing  left." 

Ah,  well,  Don  Manuel  did  not  mean  that  any 
methodical  and  properly  arranged  collection  could 
be  made  of  them,  but  nevertheless  he  thought  they 
must  possess  a  certain  charm. 

Don  Juan  sat  just  as  gloomily,  with  his  legs 
under  his  chair,  and  thought  aloud. 


1 64  PER  HALLSTROM 

"When  I  was  young,"  he  murmured,  "it  was  a 
little  different.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  felt  many 
things  then.  I  know  not  what  it  was,  but,  by  all 
the  fiends,  it  amused  me  I  The  very  uncertainty  of 
danger  had  something  tempting  in  it,  and  there 
were — I  seem  clearly  to  remember  that  there 
were — charming  women.  But  now,  whether  it  be 
they  that  are  more  stupid  or  I  that  have  grown 
wiser,  you  can  form  no  conception  how  identical 
they  are.  Their  passion,  fall,  and  remorse  proceed 
as  regularly  as  a  drill,  every  one  of  them  knows 
her  time  in  the  most  Irritating  fashion.  It  is  like 
catching  birds  in  one's  boyhood,  Don  Manuel. 
The  only  difficulty  was  to  take  the  first  decoy- 
birds,  to  make  the  first  capture,  after  that  all  was 
so  easy  that  one  soon  tired  of  it. 

"And  the  nuns,"  concluded  Don  Juan,  with 
something  like  exasperation,  "the  nuns  are  the  dull- 
est of  the  lot.  It  is  a  little  difficult  to  get  over  the 
wall,  but  afterwards — the  fruit  that  is  fastened  to 
an  espalier  ripens  soonest  of  all. 

"As  I  told  you,  you  are  happy  with  your  little 
caskets.  I  can  wish  nothing  better  than  that  you 
may  find  a  King  Achila  the  Second  and  ticket  him 
as  inalienable  property  in  your  family.  As  for  me, 
I  must  go  now,  and  shall  shortly  leave  your  town, 
but  I  would  thank  you  for  this  instructive  and 
unforgettable  hour.  If  you  ever  see  me  again, 
Senor  Don  Manuel,  it  will  be  as  another  man." 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  165 

And  with  a  thousand  assurances  of  his  loyal 
devotion  until  death  he  parted  from  his  friend, 
who  in  some  amazement  stared  after  him  a  while 
and  with  dully  gleaming  eyes  mused  upon  his 
w^ords,  before  he  turned  to  rearrange  his  coins. 

II 

Don  Juan  passed  out  again  into  the  unpleasantly 
dark  entrance  and  shivered  in  the  evening  air,  until 
Graceo,  who  had  borne  his  cloak  after  him,  came 
out  from  the  servants'  quarters  and  hung  it  over 
his  shoulders.  Graceo  at  once  began  to  prattle 
after  his  familiar  habit  about  the  people  of  the 
house,  but  his  master  did  not  listen  to  him  and 
intentionally  slammed  the  gate  to  behind  him  so 
that  it  might  crush  him  a  little.  Outside,  night  had 
fallen,  and  the  full  moon  was  peeping  down  upon 
Don  Juan  through  the  lattice  of  the  balcony  ex- 
actly under  one  of  Don  Manuel's  extended  shirts, 
as  if  it  had  jestingly  wished  to  hide  itself  there, 
Don  Juan  looked  up  at  the  shining  disk,  which  was 
mirrored  in  his  slightly  prominent  brown  eyes  and 
grinned  upon  their  vacancy,  then  he  shivered  once 
more,  sighed,  and  went,  without  knowing  why, 
merely  by  force  of  habit,  to  the  corner  of  the  gar- 
den wall.  When  he  saw  his  shadow  outlined  blue 
and  dismally  there,  he  drew  himself  up  to  his 
accustomed  elegance,  so  as  not  to  seem  ridiculous 
before  it,  and  hummed  a  tune  as  he  waited  for  his 


1 66  PER  HALLSTROM 

valet  to  catch  him  up.  The  latter  was  limping  from 
the  blow  he  had  received  on  his  knee,  and  was 
therefore  displaying  to  even  less  advantage  than 
usual  the  over-modern  drumsticks  with  which  Na- 
ture had  provided  him. 

"Graceo,"  said  Don  Juan  in  a  friendly  tone,  in 
order  to  encourage  him,  "I  think  you  said  that 
Don  Manuel  has  three  daughters?" 

"It  is  quite  possible,  Seiior,"  answered  the  in- 
jured man;  "three  things  are  always  certain,  but 
I,  and  he  himself,  too,  know  of  no  more  than  one, 
as  I  lately  had  the  honor  of  informing  you,  Seiior." 

"But  I  thought  I  heard  three  names." 

"That  Is  also  possible,  although  I  thought  you 
did  not  hear  me  at  all,  Seiior.  At  all  events,  I 
thought  I  hurt  my  knee  in  the  gate,  though  I  have 
forgotten  It  now,  and  I  may  at  the  same  time  have 
forgotten  all  that  I  knew  before." 

But  Don  Juan's  sour  looks  showed  him  that  he 
would  do  well  to  lay  aside  both  his  wit  and  his 
grudge  for  the  moment,  and  he  continued  In  a 
respectful  tone:  "It  is  only  that  Doiia  Marcela 
has  two  friends  staying  with  her,  Doiia  Angela 
and  Dona  Silvia,  and  all  three  are  walking  in  the 
garden  now  and  talking,  as  I  may  guess,  about 
yourself,  Seiior,  for  a  duenna  came  and  questioned 
me  while  I  was  eating  cheese  and  chestnuts  with 
I>isardo,  a  very  agreeable  fellow.  I  could  have 
eaten  more  chestnuts  if  she  had  not  come." 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  167 

"And  are  they  fair,  these  ladies?  You  did  not 
catch  a  gHmpse  of  them?" 

"To  judge  by  the  duenna  they  may  be  as  lovely 
as  possible,  for  she  was  uncommonly  ugly.  I  only 
know  that  the  chestnuts  were  good  and  the 
cheese  as  old  as  could  be  desired.  But  hush, 
master !  There  they  go !  I  can  hear  the  sand 
crunching." 

It  was  really  so,  and  Don  Juan  stole  gently  to 
the  wall  and  listened.  It  would  not  have  occurred 
to  him  just  now  that  he  would  ever  do  such  a  thing 
again,  but  the  moonlight  and  the  wall  were  too 
much  for  him.  And  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
he  should  be  entirely  indifferent  to  the  knowledge 
of  what  other  people  thought  of  him,  now  that  he 
intended  to  begin  a  new  life,  and  consequently  felt 
his  personality  increasing  in  importance. 

"Don  Juan  de  Marafia,"  he  heard  an  empty, 
drawling  little  girl's  voice  saying,  "that  Is  he  of 
whom  they  all  tell  so  many  stories,  though  one 
can  never  hear  them  right." 

"You  seem  to  have  good  ears,  Silvia,"  answered 
another  complaining  voice.  "I  can  only  hear  about 
the  saints,  and  King  Rodrlgo  and  the  traitor 
Oppas,  or  the  Cid,  or  the  red  king  of  the  Moors 
and  Don  Pedro.  But  perhaps  Don  Juan  is  a  saint, 
too;  perhaps  it  is  to  him  you  go  and  pray  when 
you  look  so  cross?" 

"You  know  as  much  about  him  as  I  do,  Angela, 


1 68  PER  HALLSTROM 

although  you  pretend  not  to,"  answered  the  first. 

But  Dona  Marcela  interrupted  her  quickly.  "It 
is  he,"  she  said,  "but  he  is  old  now.  Porcia  caught 
a  glimpse  of  him  and  thought  he  did  not  look,  at 
all  up-to-date.  His  valet  was  old,  too,  she  said,  and 
seemed  harmless  and  absurd.  There  is  not  much  to 
talk  about  any  longer." 

"Still,  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  see  him, 
I  think,"  sighed  Angela.  "It  would  be  a  distrac- 
tion to  see  somebody.  One  gets  so  tired  of  always 
being  alone." 

There  Silvia  agreed  with  her.  "It  is  insuffera- 
ble," said  she,  "and  since  he  is  so  old,  they  might 
easily  have  shown  him  to  us.  It  would  be  amusing 
to  make  game  of  him  a  little." 

"It  would  be  pleasant  to  have  a  little  practice 
in  singing  redondillas,"  added  Marcela.  "I  found 
a  whole  pile  last  night  by  my  window,  about  Love 
and  Cupid's  darts  and  jealousy,  exactly  as  they 
should  be,  and  I  sang  them  out  over  the  garden, 
but  there  was  nobody  to  answer,  and  so  I  soon  gave 
it  up.  A  poor  old  man  like  that  could  at  least  stand 
outside  and  invent  answering  verses  until  a  better 
came  along,  for  I  should  like  to  learn  the  art 
properly." 

"Why  so,  Marcela?" 

"Ah,  don't  pretend,  Angela !  Love  must  be  the 
most  delicious  thing  of  all.  It  lifts  one  up  to  the 
skies,   they  say;   it  makes  one   forget  everything 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  169 

except  how  one  looks,  and  at  the  same  tune  makes 
one  far  prettier.  Then,  when  you  have  kept  it 
up  for  a  time,  growing  warmer  and  warmer  as 
the  nights  get  colder,  he  makes  his  offer,  and 
you  get  the  loveliest  jewels  and  are  no  longer 
shut  up." 

"Don  Juan  is  very  rich  and  of  good  family." 

"Did  you  think  I  meant  him,  you  goose?  Well, 
perhaps  so,  until  a  better  and  a  younger  comes 
along,  for  he  is,  as  you  say,  rich." 

"And  it  would  be  a  good  action  to  convert  his 
soul  to  good." 

Here  they  all  grew  serious.  "Certainly,"  said 
they,  "certainly!"  And  from  their  silence  Don 
Juan  thought  he  might  conclude  that  they  were 
praying  for  him,  with  the  sand  crunching  under 
their  little  feet  and  their  lips  imperceptibly  curl- 
ing. Then  some  one  called  from  the  house  above. 
"It  is  time  for  us  to  go  home,"  said  Silvia.  "They 
have  come  for  us."  And  when  she  had  sighed  and 
answered,  their  steps  were  heard  dying  away. 

Don  Juan  remained  staring  at  his  shadow  with 
as  fierce  a  look  as  if  he  meant  to  run  it  through 
with  his  sword. 

"Ha,  ha,"  he  muttered,  "has  it  gone  so  far 
with  me?  It  remains  to  be  seen  first  whether  I 
cannot  teach  these  little  pullets  a  lesson." 

"Graceo,"  he  said  aloud,  "go  back  at  once  and 
follow  Doiia  Silvia  and  Dona  Angela,  and  find  out 


170  PER  HALLSTROM 

where  they  live.  I  myself  have  a  little  business 
here,  but  I  shall  soon  come  home  and  I  expect  to 
find  you  there." 

Graceo  lingered  and  cast  a  trained  eye  about 
him.  "But,  master,"  said  he,  "alone  here?  The 
wall  Is  high." 

"See  to  your  own  affair,  Graceo,  and  see  to  it 
well !  Do  you  suppose  that  in  the  house  of  a  Don 
Manuel  all  the  gates  are  properly  closed?"  And 
whistling  softly,  with  an  Indescribable  bearing  of 
boastful  pride,  elastic  youth,  and  Investigating  cau- 
tion, Don  Juan  went  slowly  along  by  the  wall,  while 
Graceo,  still  limping,  went  off  on  his  errand. 

Some  little  time  afterwards  the  experienced  gen- 
tleman stood  under  the  window  which  he  guessed 
to  be  Marcela's,  In  a  magnolia  bush  which  was 
now  growing  thin  as  the  autumn  advanced.  He 
began  to  sing,  softly  and  alluringly: 

O  Love,  of  tyrants  most  cruel, 

What  need  of  thy  spear  and  dart? 

One  look — which  who  can  avoid  or  flee — 
Can  pierce  to  the  depths  of  the  heart. 

And  when  a  moment  afterwards  a  black  sil- 
houette appeared  In  the  window  against  the  pale 
lamplight,  he  said  with  flowing  tongue: 

"Is  It  Aurora  that  meets  me,  since  I  see  how 
the  stars  are  extinguished?    Is    It    the  sun,   that 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  171 

scorches    and   blinds  me?" — and  a  whole  string 
more  of  the  same  stuff. 

Doiia  Marcela  was  less  tardy  In  answering  than 
he  in  finishing.  She  did  so  in  a  tone  of  witty  mock- 
ery, such  as  alone  was  suitable  for  a  self-respecting 
dame  after  such  hyperbole.  She  meant  to  hint  that 
she  would  never  dream  of  believing  it,  but  still 
less  of  doubting,  since  she  replied  to  him  at  all: 
she  let  him  understand  that  it  was  far  to  Rome, 
but  that  the  way  thereto  should  be  made  as  pleas- 
ant and  agreeable  as  possible. 

"Is  it  the  night  that  speaks  to  the  sun?"  she 
asked  in  return.  "How  dark  must  that  night  be, 
when  my  dark  beauty  seems  to  it  a  sun!  But  by 
the  far  advanced  position  of  the  world  to-day  the 
night  should  learn  what  little  prospect  he  has  of 
meeting  the  sun." — And  so  on  in  the  same  vein. 

When  they  had  continued  thus  for  a  time, 
the  moment  came  for  Don  Juan  to  declare  how 
he  had  been  attracted  to  the  town  of  Baza  solely 
by  reports  of  Marcela's  beauty,  which  had  been 
the  polestar  (or  more  properly  the  sun  !)  to  guide 
him  on  his  homeward  way.  In  this  town,  which 
moreover  drew  its  elixir  of  life  solely  and  simply 
from  the  said  beauty,  his  fate  was  now  to  be  eter- 
nally decided,  and  here  on  his  knees  in  the  dust 
he  prayed  to  be  as  kindly  received  as  he  had  been 
cruelly  wounded  by  a  mere  glimpse,  a  glimpse  all 
too  short,  in  the  street. 


172  PER  HALLSTROM 

As  Don  Juan  was  a  little  uncertain  whether  his 
adored  was  dark  or  possibly  by  a  happy  accident 
fair,  and  was  therefore  afraid  of  falling  into  error 
if  he  embarked  upon  a  further  description  of  her 
charms,  he  was  anxious  to  put  an  end  to  the  con- 
versation for  that  night  and  come  away — a  task 
which  he  had  no  difficulty  in  accomplishing  in  a 
graceful  manner.  Moreover,  he  found  it  a  trifle 
cold  to  stop  long  in  the  magnolia  bush  with  its 
damp  leaves.  He  departed,  therefore,  after  having 
at  different  Intervals  sung  two  redondlllas,  more 
passionate  in  tone  the  farther  off  he  stood;  and 
when  well  outside  the  wall  he  hurried  home  to 
learn  what  Graceo  had  discovered  and  to  lay  his 
plans  for  the  comprehensive  undertaking  into 
which  his  wounded  vanity  and  his  ennui  and  per- 
haps also  the  moonlight  had  led  him. 

Dofia  Marcela  remained  at  the  window,  smiling 
and  undecided,  happy  yet  uneasy.  She  wondered 
if  she  had  not  heard  false  reports  of  Don  Juan 
hitherto;  she  was  pleased  that  he  was  rich  and 
of  noble  birth,  and  felt  it  pleasant  also  to  be  in- 
volved in  an  intrigue.  She  hesitated  over  two 
things:  whether  she  should  take  the  duenna 
Into  her  confidence,  for  the  gaining  of  further 
advantages,  and  whether  it  would  not  be  still 
more  agreeable  If  she  really  fell  In  love,  of 
course  after  having  first  seen  Don  Juan's  face  by 
daylight. 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  173 

III 

During  the  next  few  days  Don  Juan  was  busily 
occupied,  now  at  one  end  of  the  town,  now  at  the 
other;  he  came  home  late  and  slept  little,  but  never 
failed  to  attend  mass  in  one  of  the  three  churches, 
or  missed  his  walk  at  sunset.  He  seemed  much 
younger  than  before,  was  light  and  nimble  in  his 
walk,  cheerful  in  his  look,  and  had  that  calm 
symmetry  of  movement  which  a  well-apportioned 
day  can  give.  Graceo  also  had  many  things  to  do, 
but  they  only  made  him  older;  he  grumbled  at 
everything,  at  the  street-paving  and  the  art  of 
writing.  He  swore  at  the  notary,  who  sat  in  his 
corner  and  printed  off  letters  for  all  who  wanted 
them.  "Writing,  any  lout  can  learn,"  he  said.  "He 
has  only  to  put  on  an  important  air  and  mess  his 
fingers.  I  could  have  done  it,  too,  if  I  had  been  to 
school.  But  it  needs  genius  to  get  the  legs  that  God 
has  given  you  to  serve  when  you  have  to  carry 
round  the  products  of  all  this  quill-driving,  and  to 
deliver  them  where  there  are  dogs  needs  philoso- 
phy, too."  But  he  received  many  reals  from  his 
master  and  spent  them  in  drinking  wine  in  the 
evenings  with  different  people,  to  each  of  whom 
he  gave  a  different  explanation  of  his  business  in 
the  town. 

Don  Juan  himself,  having  met  his  friend  Don 
Manuel  two  or  three  times,  explained  to  him  that 
he  had  decided  to  stay  on  until  the  great  festival 


174  PER  HALLSTROM 

should  be  celebrated.  There  was  a  relic  to  be  in- 
stalled with  all  the  usual  solemnities  in  the  church 
of  San  Jago,  a  very  precious  relic,  one  of  the  fangs 
of  the  serpent  that  had  tempted  Eve  from  Para- 
dise. All  the  more  important  families  of  the  town 
were  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony,  and  Don  Juan, 
as  his  honored  friend  could  very  well  understand, 
would  not  for  anything  miss  this  edifying  specta- 
cle, which  now  in  his  altered  state  of  mind  had  a 
heightened  attraction  for  him. 

Meanwhile  Don  Juan  had  new  and  splendid 
apparel  made  to  be  used  on  that  occasion,  and  also 
bought  a  costly  diamond  clasp  to  wear  in  his  hat, 
for  which  purpose  he  paid  a  visit  to  Israel  Perez, 
the  best  goldsmith  in  the  place. 

Israel  had  not  "limpieza,"  that  is  to  say,  pure 
Christian  blood,  but  he  himself  was  a  Christian: 
it  was  to  do  him  grave  and  perilous  wrong  to  state 
anything  else.  Every  Friday  he  ate  fish  so  near 
the  front  of  his  shop  that  any  one  could  see  him, 
and  any  other  day  in  the  week  he  would  buy,  again 
so  openly  that  all  might  see,  a  piece  of  pork,  which 
he  would  bury  in  his  back  garden  after  nightfall. 
He  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  with  an  excellent  know- 
ledge of  precious  stones. 

When  Don  Juan  had  chosen  his  clasp,  he  asked 
to  see  some  other  jewels.  "I  want  some  more  un- 
common stones,"  said  he,  "some  solitaires  of  one 
kind  or  another.  They  may  cost  what  you  will." 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  175 

"Then  my  gracious  benefactor  has  only  to 
choose,"  answered  Israel  with  a  bow,  and  he  re- 
tired for  a  moment  to  select  the  required  article 
from  his  secret  stores. 

"See  here,  my  protector,"  said  he,  as  he  returned 
holding  a  large  and  magnificent  ruby  like  a  burning 
coal  between  his  crooked  black  fingers,  "see  here 
the  wonder  of  Ceylon,  the  treasure  of  Taprobane, 
which  the  holy  king  Alexander  captured  from  the 
Moors  there.  Its  color  is  as  the  noble  seiior's  own 
blood;  see  now,  when  I  hold  it  in  the  half-light 
It  Is  merry  and  nimble  as  fire,  but  it  is  shot  with 
blue!  This  stone  is  altogether  unique;  there  is 
not  its  like  in  all  the  world,  and  It  has  rested 
in  its  time  upon  the  forehead  of  the  goddess 
Venus." 

"I  am  well  content  with  it,"  replied  Don  Juan, 
"but  it  is  tiresome  that  it  should  be  unique,  for  I 
would  have  had  others." 

"Then  my  gracious  benefactor  has  only  to  say 
the  word,  for  I  have  two  others,  just  the  same," 
said  Israel  with  some  embarrassment. 

"And  each  of  them  perhaps  just  as  unique  as 
this  one?" 

"Your  highness  deigns  to  jest  with  a  poor  man; 
it  Is  very  friendly  of  your  grace.  But  I  have  no 
more  than  three,  I  swear;  they  have  rested  on  the 
foreheads  of  three  idols,  Minos,  iEacus,  and 
Rhadamanthus." 


176  PER  HALLSTROM 

"I  thought  you  said  something  different  about 
this  one." 

"That  was  but  another  name  for  the  same 
Rhadamanthus,  sir." 

And  to  finish  with  these  ambiguities,  Israel  Perez 
hastened  to  fetch  the  other  stones  also,  and  went 
on  talking  eagerly  with  wide  gestures  which  made 
the  red  points  between  his  fingers  dart  to  and  fro 
against  his  black,  coat  like  sparks  upon  burnt  paper. 

"Ah,  sir!  Ah,  sir!  These  three  stones,  what  can 
one  not  buy  with  them !  Honor,  sir — if  there  is 
so  much  honor  left — here  is  enough  for  three 
hearts!  Innocence,  sir — if  there  are  so  many  inno- 
cent— these  stones  can  dazzle  three  pairs  of  eyes! 
Hold  one  of  them  up  in  the  dark  and  it  will  shine 
of  itself,  and  for  these  stones  three  blades,  ready 
for  anything,  may  be  yours.  Put  them  to  holy  uses, 
and  the  first  will  buy  you  free  from  Hell,  the  sec- 
ond from  Purgatory,  and  the  third  from  Para- 
dise— oh,  my  accursed  tongue !  I  mean  that  for  the 
third  you  will  be  let  to  stay  there !" 

Don  Juan  sat  revolving  something  in  his  mind, 
moving  his  fingers  to  and  fro  upon  his  knees  and 
only  half  listening  to  the  other's  words.  "And  so 
it  is  your  soul's  welfare  that  you  are  prepared  to 
sell,  Israel?"  said  he.  "Name  your  price,  and  if 
there  are  so  many  gold  pieces  in  my  purse,  I  will 
take  the  stones,  for  I  think  they  will  serve  my 
purpose."  And  as  they  soon  came  to  terms,  he 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  177 

took  the  jewels  and  ordered  a  different  setting  for 
each  of  them,  to  be  ready  one  each  day. 

That  evening  Don  Juan  stood  in  the  magnolia 
bush  and  sang,  very  softly,  long  and  passionate 
redondillas,  while  Marcela,  who  had  in  a  short 
time  developed  her  natural  talent,  improvised 
whole  poems  in  answer,  which  made  her  very  proud 
and  happy.  When  they  had  said  well-nigh  all  that 
could  be  said  of  love,  the  sun,  jealousy,  and  the 
half-life,  or  rather  death,  which  they  each  suffered 
in  the  absence  of  the  other,  Don  Juan  made  a 
lengthy  declaration. 

"The  joy  that  fetters  me  here,"  said  he,  "is  the 
deciding  factor  in  my  life.  I  have  wandered  before, 
I  have  many  times  gone  astray,  but  now  I  stand 
before  the  pole-star  of  my  love,  the  fixed,  immova- 
ble northern  star.  I  have  guessed  it  all  the  time, 
and  have  kept  my  real  love  pure  and  untainted 
within  my  breast.  See,  here  I  have  a  jewel,  this  red 
stone  burning  in  the  darkness  like  a  heart  in  flames. 
It  is  peerless  and  unique  in  all  the  world;  it  is 
fairer  than  any  other  ruby.  This  stone  I  have 
always  borne  about  me;  I  have  wished  to  bestow 
it  only  where  my  heart  should  find  another  worthy 
of  itself  and  of  this  gift.  Now  I  give  it  without 
reserve,  now  I  beg  that  for  a  moment  I  may  be 
allowed  to  lie  at  your  feet  and  present  it  to  you. 
With  it  I  give  you  all."  Much  more  he  said,  and 
among  other  things    that    immediately  after  the 


178  PER  HALLSTROM 

great  church  festival,  where  he  hoped  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  her  family,  he  would  openly  ap- 
pear as  her  suitor. 

Dona  Marcela  was  naturally  very  curious  to 
see  the  stone  and  was  also  touched  by  his  words. 
They  were  eloquent,  they  did  her  much  honor  and 
himself,  too,  for  anything  finer  than  a  whole  life's 
striving  after  perfection,  with  its  issue  in  herself, 
she  had  difficulty  In  Imagining.  She  had  also  found 
pleasure  In  Don  Juan's  exterior  by  daylight;  she 
thought  his  eyes  beautiful  and  expressive,  his  fig- 
ure still  young,  and  his  dress  rich.  But  she  knew 
that  It  was  a  far  more  serious  matter  to  let  her 
admirer  into  her  chamber  than  to  bestow  on  him 
a  look  at  the  church  gate  or  to  sing  redondillas 
over  his  head  Into  the  darkness;  she  felt  herself 
seized  by  an  agreeable  trembling  and  a  pleasant 
temptation  towards  the  unknown.  And  so  it  was 
only  with  a  half-refusal  and  with  genuine  regret 
that  she  answered : 

"But,  Don  Juan,  that  cannot  be,  for  no  approach 
to  my  chamber  Is  available.  Next  door  to  me  sleeps 
Porcia;  I  hear  her  through  the  wall.  She  is  incor- 
ruptible, she  Is  honor  itself,  and  if  she  Is  disturbed 
she  Is  cross  and  will  answer  no  to  anything  what- 
ever, for  she  has  respect  for  the  proprieties  and  Is 
especially  out  of  humor  when  she  wakes." 

But  Don  Juan  answered  almost  cheerfully: 

*'But  there  Is  no  need  to  go  that  way.  This  little 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  179 

ladder  here  is  easy  to  haul  up  by  a  cord  and  easy 
to  attach.  Only  find  a  cord,  or  let  me  throw  one  up 
to  you!" 

This  about  the  rope  ladder  decided  her.  The 
temptation  was  too  strong,  for  ladders  she  had 
always  dreamt  of,  though  never  seen.  A  cord  was 
easy  to  find,  and  it  was  as  an  enamored  woman 
that  she  let  it  down  through  the  window.  For  a 
moment,  as  she  saw  the  whirling  motion  of  the  ball 
of  twine,  it  came  upon  her  how  as  a  child  she  had 
been  wont  to  play  with  kittens  in  that  manner,  and 
it  was  with  a  smile  that  she  saw  Don  Juan  eagerly 
fumbling  for  the  ball.  A  moment  afterwards  she 
hauled  up  the  ladder  and  fastened  it  with  anxious 
care  that  it  should  hold. 

That  same  evening  Graceo  sat  with  wild,  red 
eyes  in  a  wine-shop  explaining  to  a  chance  ac- 
quaintance, an  alguazil,  how  he  was  staying  in  the 
town  with  a  view  to  obtaining  employment  in  that 
gentleman's  famous  and  respected  corps,  while  his 
master,  too,  intended  to  settle  here  in  order  to 
become  alguazil  mayor,  to  which  post  he  was  ex- 
pecting a  nomination,  thanks  to  high  connections 
at  court. 

IV 

For  the  great  church  festival  the  gentry  of  the 
town  of  Baza  were  assembled  in  a  room  that  over- 
looked the  market-place,  in  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished houses.  From  there  they  were  to  accom- 


i8o  PER  HALLSTROM 

pany  the  procession,  but  the  time  before  was  to  be 
employed  in  secular  and  merry  thoughts,  and  all 
the  more  naturally  as  It  was  only  upon  such  rare 
occasions  that  the  unmarried  maidens  could  show 
that  they  existed,  otherwise  than  with  a  prayer- 
book  In  their  hands  and  a  duenna  behind  them. 
Every  one  was  dressed  as  sumptuously  as  his 
means  allowed,  and  they  had  therefore  the  great- 
est Interest  In  eyeing  one  another. 

Fairest  among  all  the  maidens  were  Doiia  Mar- 
cela.  Dona  Angela,  and  Doiia  Silvia,  and  to  them 
all  eyes  were  drawn.  From  their  mulberry-colored 
velvet  dresses,  held  out  at  right  angles  from  the 
hips  by  their  hoops,  their  graceful  forms  emerged 
like  nosegays  set  In  dark-glazed  Moorish  vases. 
Their  heads  and  necks,  whose  warm  golden  hue 
was  not  yet  overlaid  by  the  shining  paint  of  gold- 
leaf  which  in  the  most  elegant  circles  was  begin- 
ning to  be  the  fashion,  surprised  and  delighted  by 
their  freshness — they  were  really  like  flowers,  like 
pale  and  lovely  tulips.  They  had  a  certain  resem- 
blance to  one  another;  one  could  not  say  what 
it  was;  not  In  their  dresses  alone,  which  several 
others  had  in  the  same  durable  and  fashionable 
color,  but  also  in  their  faces  and  expressions.  A 
delighted  glow  of  pride  shone  from  them,  and 
the  eyes  of  all  three  ended  their  circle  at  the  door 
every  time  they  cast  a  triumphant  glance  around 
them.  One  could  have  said  that  like  flowers  they 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  i8i 

were  drawn  towards  the  sun  which  gave  them 
beauty.  Around  them  young  admirers  pressed  so 
closely  that  their  swords,  all  at  the  same  angle  to 
their  sides,  formed  a  metal  railing  to  fence  the 
damsels  round  like  images  of  saints,  and  they 
could  not  see  each  other  for  all  the  heads  that  hid 
the  view.  The  older  gentlemen  congratulated  their 
fathers  on  such  miracles  and  phoenixes  of  beauty 
and  virtue,  but  Don  Manuel  for  his  part  was  so 
much  occupied  by  his  latest  find,  the  absolute  pearl 
of  his  collection,  a  Greek  coin  from  Sagunto,  that 
he  paid  little  heed  to  anything  else. 

But  all  at  once  there  was  a  movement  in  the  hall, 
which  made  the  crowd  about  the  three  friends 
thinner  and  allowed  them  slowly  to  approach  each 
other — as  rapidly  as  a  fitting  demeanor  and  their 
stiff  dresses  would  permit.  It  was  the  renowned 
stranger,  Don  Juan  de  Marafia  y  Tenorio,  who 
had  entered  and  with  easy  grace  was  greeting  his 
acquaintances  and  through  them  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  rest. 

How  handsome  and  imposing  he  looked  none 
can  imagine  who  had  not  the  advantage  of  living 
in  his  day  and  meeting  him  in  person.  His  some- 
what scanty  hair  lay  hidden  under  his  cap,  and 
the  flashing  diamond  clasp  diverted  all  attention 
to  itself.  His  sloping  forehead  showed  clear  and 
even  and  almost  venerable,  especially  since  he 
bore  his  head  so  high.      His  prominent  brown 


1 82  PER  HALLSTROM 

eyes  had  no  rivals  but  each  other  In  brilliance  and 
proud  assurance,  his  lips  wore  a  chaste  and  be- 
witching smile.  He  carried  his  hands  and  elbows 
like  no  one  else,  and  the  laces  that  adorned  his 
neck  and  breast  were  more  dazzllngly  white  and 
fine  than  any  others  there.  The  only  thing  that 
could  be  objected  against  him  was  that  his  legs, 
notwithstanding  their  dark  and  very  tight  silk 
stockings,  were  somewhat  too  substantial  for  a 
man  of  his  pretensions  and  rank. 

Radiant  and  triumphant,  he  slipped  between  the 
different  groups,  stopped  with  each  a  moment  and 
turned  to  the  next,  his  movements  thus  assuming 
the  course  of  a  heavenly  body,  which,  rotating 
round  its  own  glory,  moves  on  among  the  lesser 
lights.  The  three  young  ladles  observed  him  with 
still  more  pleasure  than  all  the  rest;  they  took 
short  breaths  which  trembled  with  expectation. 
Then  they  turned  to  one  another  with  a  smile  of 
triumph,  and  remembered  that  they  had  not  met 
since  that  evening  when  they  had  talked  all  manner 
of  foolishness  about  him  In  the  garden. 

What  was  it  that  caused  their  smiles  to  stiffen, 
and  the  natural  easy  pride  before  a  well-loved 
friend  and  rival  to  become  hard  and  cold?  Over 
the  ear  of  each,  embedded  In  the  dark  hair,  so 
that  it  only  half  shone  out,  was  a  large  and  splendid 
ruby — that  was  the  first  thing  that  met  their  gaze. 
They  stood  there  mute,  their  thoughts  crowding 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  183 

upon  them,  and  at  that  moment  a  foolish  old 
pedant,  Don  Eugenio  de  Figueroa,  came  up,  and 
noticing  the  three  rubies,  took  from  them  an  idea 
for  a  vapid,  simultaneous  compliment. 

"Fair  graces,  what  is  this  I  see?"  he  called; 
"what  means  this  mark  of  sisterhood?  Is  it  a  bee 
that  has  taken  you  for  flowers  and  stung  you — 
ah,  happy  bee! — or  are  they  three  coals  from 
Vesta's  holy  altar?  Do  they  signify  that  all  tears 
and  sighing  will  rebound  from  your  stony  hearts?" 

Happily,  if  in  this  situation  one  may  speak  of 
happiness,  Marcela's  mother  here  drew  her  away 
to  be  presented  to  Don  Juan,  who,  as  he  paid  his 
glowing  compliments,  dexterously  contrived  to 
draw  her  a  little  apart,  so  that  they  might  exchange 
a  word  or  two. 

"You  have  deceived  me,  Don  Juan,"  said  she, 
darkly.  That  was  all  she  dared  to  say,  though  she 
would  have  liked  to  strike  him  to  the  ground  to 
avenge  her  cruelly  wounded  vanity.  And  at  his 
innocent  look  she  hinted:  "The  ruby,  the  peerless 
jewel!" 

"Ah!"  Don  Juan's  look  shone  and  caressed  her. 
"I  have  not  deceived  you,  as  you  think,  Doiia  Mar- 
cela.  I  only  wished  to  punish  you  a  little  for  your 
contempt  before  you  saw  me,  for  those  words  you 
spoke  in  the  garden.  But  love  broke  the  point  of 
my  revenge.  Your  ruby,  Marcela,  hear  me  as  I 
swear  it,  is  genuine.  The  others  are  counterfeit." 


1 84  PER  HALLSTROM 

And  when  he  saw  that  the  explanation  changed 
the  whole  case  for  her,  and  even  gave  her  jewel  a 
heightened  value,  he  left  her  with  a  smile  and 
came  at  length  to  Doiia  Angela.  Here,  upon  much 
the  same  demand,  he  repeated  exactly  the  same 
words,  and  with  the  same  effect. 

A  third  time  the  same  scene  was  repeated;  and 
after  that  Don  Juan  stayed  his  hand,  and  did  not 
trouble  to  secure  many  introductions.  He  saw  the 
three  friends  happy  once  more,  he  felt  a  little 
weary;  and  the  procession  of  the  holy  relic  was 
on  the  point  of  being  formed. 

He  himself  took  his  place  in  it  by  the  side  of  a 
very  pious  old  lady,  who  was  entirely  satisfied  with 
his  devout  mien,  no  less  than  with  his  handsome 
figure. 

When  the  ceremony  was  ended  he  went  straight 
to  his  lodging,  and  after  some  little  trouble  man- 
aged to  get  hold  of  Graceo,  who,  firm  believer  as 
he  was,  had  signalized  the  importance  of  the  day 
by  going  about  when  the  procession  was  over  and 
throwing  stones  at  the  windows  of  any  of  the 
townsfolk  who  had  shown  themselves  lukewarm 
and  suspect,  including  those  of  Israel  Perez,  though 
he  had  made  every  effort  to  be  present  at  the  fes- 
tival. 

"Graceo,"  said  Don  Juan,  "you  will  pack  our 
baggage  to-night,  and  see  that  our  horses  are  fed. 
Early  to-morrow  we  leave  Baza." 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  185 

Graceo  stared  in  amazement. 

"Master,"  said  he,  "I  thought  you  were  bound 
here  with  three-fold  bonds.  After  all  the  business 
I  have  had !  It  is  hard  not  to  be  allowed  to  sit  on 
a  doorstep  and  rest!" 

But  Don  Juan's  serious  look  compelled  him  to 
silence  and  obedience,  or  to  keep  his  grumbling 
low. 

V 

And  so  it  was  on  a  fine  morning  at  the  end  of 
October  that  Don  Juan  de  Maraha  y  Tenorio  left 
Baza,  the  aforesaid  medium  sized  town  in  the 
province  of  Granada.  He  was  also  still  on  the  way 
to  his  native  place,  Sevilla,  to  begin  a  new  life  there. 
He  listened  to  the  tread  of  Graceo's  mule  behind 
him  and  thought,  as  the  fresh  morning  air  whistled 
in  his  half-boots,  about  Don  Manuel's  collection 
and  his  calm,  happy  look  of  conscious  honesty, 
and  about  Doiia  Marcela,  Doiia  Angela,  and 
Dona  Silvia,  who  even  already  tended  to  melt 
together  before  his  eyes  into  a  single  figure  with 
three  rubies.  "This  Is  no  longer  to  be  endured," 
he  muttered;  "it  Is,  as  I  have  said,  a  barren  field 
on  which  I  have  entered.  If  only  one  of  them  had 
doubted  that  last  thing  I  told  them !  But  they  de- 
voured It  as  eagerly  as  do  carp  a  piece  of  bread 
one  throws  them,  and  dived  down  to  the  depths 
with  it.  If  only  one  had  doubted,  I  would  have 
striven  to  win  her,  she  would  have  been  my  King 


i86  PER  IIALLSTROM 

Achila,  and  I  should  not  have  been  happy,  till  she 
had  become  mine  again." 

He  found  the  air  gray  and  unpleasant,  in  spite 
of  the  fine  weather;  he  lingered  long  to  watch  a 
blind  beggar  who,  with  a  boy  at  his  feet,  was  eat- 
ing bread  and  onions  and  seemed  to  be  much  enjoy- 
ing them. 

"Graceo,"  he  asked,  "can  you  guess  why  that 
beggar  is  so  happy?" 

"It  is  no  doubt  his  cursed  habit,  Seiior,"  an- 
swered that  hardened  jester. 

"By  no  means!  It  is  because  he  cannot  see  how 
mouldy  his  bread  is.  The  boy  sees  it,  and  chooses 
his  bits,  and  will  never  be  as  fat  as  he.  And  he  gets 
tears  in  his  eyes  from  the  onions!" 

Throwing  them  a  copper,  he  pursued  his  way, 
and  between  master  and  servant  the  following  dia- 
logue took  place,  though  Don  Juan  did  not  turn 
round,  nor  did  Graceo's  mouth  relax  for  one  mo- 
ment its  jocular  grimace. 

"Does  It  not  seem  to  you,  Graceo,"  said  Don 
Juan,  "that  the  life  we  have  Hved  during  the — five 
years  you  have  been  with  me  has  been  very  dull?" 

"It  may  have  been  my  fault  that  you  should 
think  so,  Sefior,  for  true  it  Is  that  I  have  spent  my 
pound  In  amusing  you,  and  that  in  such  a  way  that 
I  have  clipped  It,  as  the  money-changers  do  with 
gold  coins,  and  shall  soon  have  only  the  lead 
remaining." 


DON  JUAN'S  RUBIES  187 

"But  you  yourself,  Graceo?" 

"Ah,  some  men  want  one  thing  and  some  an- 
other. For  my  own  part  I  regret  only  the  shoes 
I  have  worn  out  and  the  gifts  I  have  not  received. 
'It  will  be  a  swan,  said  the  hen,  when  she  laid  her 
egg  in  the  water,'  so  an  uncle  of  mine  used  always 
to  say  to  me  when  he  heard  folk  complain  that 
they  had  not  become  what  they  had  expected.  'Tis 
true  I  thought  that  I  with  my  appearance  might 
do  something  better  than  merely  carry  messages 
for  others.  But  I  defy  any  one  v/ho  cannot  read 
addresses  to  deliver  notes  as  well  as  I." 

"Well,  then,  Graceo,  you  shall  have  something 
else  to  do.  You  shall  be  my  steward,  for  I  intend 
to  settle  down  at  home  and  begin  an  entirely  new 
life.  I  expect  also  the  same  of  you." 

"No  need  to  wait  for  that,  Seiior.  I  mean  to 
begin  a  life  that  will  make  me  by  five  inches  a 
better  man.  Instead  of  stealing  the  honor  of  oth- 
ers, I  shall  hold  to  my  master's  property  with  all 
a  faithful  servant's  zeal.  But  when  you  have 
any  letters  to  send  in  the  darkness,  I  beg  that 
I  may  perform  the  service,  so  as  not  to  reform 
too  suddenly,  and  because  another  might  confuse 
them." 

To  this  Don  Juan  answered  nothing,  and  they 
rode  on  in  silence. 

However,  notwithstanding  Graceo's  doubts, 
Don  Juan  did  become  another  man.  The  stories 


1 88  PER  HALLSTROM 

that  are  still  told  of  him  bear  witness  to  this  fact, 
though  with  poetic  exaggeration. 

One  of  them  states  that  he  became  a  monk,  and 
a  fanatic,  a  story  which  Is  Inadequate  on  the  face 
of  it.  For  fanatics  are  not  made  of  those  who  have 
given  themselves  away  In  beggar's  doles.  The 
fanatic  Is  the  gamester  who  has  staked  his  whole 
life  upon  one  board  and  lost,  or  the  miser  who 
would  make  his  goods  suffice  also  for  another 
world. 

This  tradition  must  be  interpreted  to  mean  that 
as  this  gentleman  advanced  In  years  and  came  to 
think  both  on  his  sins  and  on  the  advantages  of 
Paradise,  he  steered  his  course  so  that  he  ever  kept 
an  eye  upon  both  quarters.  Another  legend,  an 
obvious  legend,  says  that  he  was  carried  away, 
while  still  in  the  full  flow  of  his  wickedness,  by  the 
Commander's  statue,  which  he  had  bidden  to  sup- 
per. For  any  one  skilled  in  the  interpretation  of 
myths  this  will  clearly  mean  that  respectability 
took  him  to  its  embrace  and  overwhelmed  him 
with  honors,  when  he  deserved  them,  and  that  he 
saw  commanders  at  his  house  to  banquets. 

This  Don  Juan's  happy  amendment  was  assisted 
beyond  a  doubt  by  the  phase  of  his  life,  that  Octo- 
ber month,  which  he  passed  in  the  town  of  Baza, 
and  of  which  the  history  is  here  for  the  first  time 
recorded. 


HIDDEN  FIRES 

[DET  STUMMA] 

FROM  DE  FYRA  ELEMENTERNA 

1906 


Hidden  Fires 
I 

THE  village  lay  between  hills,  just  where  the 
mountain  district  in  its  last  descents  stepped 
down  on  to  the  wide,  low  coastland.  The  woods 
were  taller  and  thicker  than  they  are  to-day,  and 
covered  every  part  where  no  water-course  with 
its  spring  and  autumn  floods  had  kept  away  the 
trees,  building  walls  of  alluvial  deposit  and  cloth- 
ing them  with  gray  osiers.  But  there  was  a  river 
there,  and  in  its  spacious  valley  men  had  early 
settled  down.  They  had  ditched  the  meadows  and 
ploughed  up  the  best  of  them  for  tilled  land,  had 
set  axe  and  fire  to  the  roots  of  the  giant  trees,  and 
one  generation  after  another  had  widened  its  do- 
main. Now  the  valley  lay  smiling  under  the  south- 
ern sun,  not  over  fertile,  but  rich  and  kindly 
enough,  below  the  red  farmsteads  of  the  hill-slopes. 
The  narrow  fields  with  their  changing  crops  were 
woven  into  a  striped  and  chequered  coverlet  which 
in  spring-time  seemed  of  the  finest  and  lightest 
texture  possible.  Even  the  little  barns  of  the 
marshes  gleamed  silver-gray  then,  and  looked  like 
a  scattered  and  resting  herd.  The  land,  however, 
was  clayey  and  none  too  easy  to  work.  It  undulated 
still,  not  having  arrived  at  the  peace  of  the  plains; 

191 


192  PER  HALLSTROM 

the  rise  and  fall  of  it  was  like  the  arrested  heaving 
of  some  broad  and  powerful  breast. 

Just  above,  the  river  took  its  last  plunge,  com- 
pressing its  waters  and  roaring  untamed  both  sum- 
mer and  winter.  When  the  frost  came,  a  white 
vapor  rose  there,  which  was  swept  forwards  in  the 
draught  caused  by  the  current  and  fell  upon  the 
banks  as  sleet  before  the  snow  itself  arrived.  The 
children  would  run  in  the  mist,  calling  and  laugh- 
ing to  one  another,  suddenly  shivering  and  smiling 
merrily  when  they  came  out  again  and  found  each 
other  with  cheeks  freshened  by  the  cold,  but  hair 
grizzled  as  if  with  age.  Down  below,  the  river 
froze  over,  but  was  never  really  safe,  on  account 
of  the  ever  restless  and  gently  eddying  forces  in 
its  depths.  Not  seldom  some  one  was  drowned 
there,  but  they  had  to  look  much  lower  down  the 
river  for  the  corpse  when  spring  came.  When  it 
was  found,  the  arms  might  be  stretched  above  the 
head,  as  when  the  last  appealing  cry  was  made  to 
home  and  friends;  they  had  stiffened  so,  convul- 
sively clutching  at  all  that  was  safe  and  dear.  The 
coffin  had  to  be  made  very  long,  and  looked  sinister 
and  threatening,  and  the  grave  had  to  be  large. 
To  the  children  it  seemed  as  if  a  cry  would  sound 
from  it  when  the  warmth  and  sunshine  came  to 
loosen  all  that  the  frost  had  bound. 

The  hills  sloped  down  with  very  high  walls  of 
rock.  Their  tops  were  clothed  with   forest,   but 


HIDDEN  FIRES  i93 

since  It  was  a  difficult  task  to  carry  down  unsav/n 
timber  from  the  upper  slopes,  or  even  to  climb 
up  to  them,  the  trees  were  left  untouched  to  grow 
and  decay  in  their  native  wildness.  The  giant  pines 
became  bleached  skeletons  of  trees  where  eagles 
sought  to  dwell,  as  their  custom  is,  above  the  hard 
and  prickly  line  of  the  fir  tops.  When  all  was 
muffled  in  white,  the  forest  shone  and  glowed 
against  the  glass-green  sky  in  the  morning  and 
evening  sunshine  like  patterns  of  frost  upon  a  win- 
dow-pane, but  much  larger,  for  all  the  distance. 
A  vast,  strange,  motionless  world  it  was,  the  im- 
age of  a  dreamland  remaining  when  the  mem- 
ory of  all  the  wonders  that  had  happened  there 
had  vanished. 

The  whole  year  long  the  rocks  caught  up  every 
sound  that  took  its  birth  among  them,  and  tossed 
the  echoes  to  and  fro  until  they  died  away  to 
human  ears.  When  the  farm-girl  called  home  her 
cows  by  all  their  tender  names,  her  calls  would  be 
re-echoed  far  within  the  rock  until  it  seemed  as 
if  the  fairy  folk  inside  were  also  bringing  in  herds 
richer,  larger,  and  more  splendid  than  those  of 
mortal  men.  Or  as  if  in  hollow  and  mournful 
tones  they  mimicked  and  mocked  the  sounds,  or  in 
hate  and  malice  strove  to  lure  the  possessions  of 
others  into  their  hands.  In  all  these  different  ways 
could  the  echoes  be  interpreted,  according  to  the 
time  and  mood. 


194  PER  HALLSTROM 

When  the  sleigh-bells  jingled  sharply  in  the 
frost  on  the  way  up  to  the  fairy  portal,  and  sud- 
denly vanished  round  the  bend,  it  sounded  to  the 
listeners'  ears  as  if  bells  and  sleigh  had  been  borne 
right  into  the  heart  of  the  liill  and  continued  to 
echo  there  from  among  winding  tracks  that  were 
otherwise  closed  to  mortal  footsteps,  or  at  least 
admitted  of  no  journey  back. 

A  sense  of  mystery  and  secrecy,  born  of  a  con- 
stant suppression  and  concealment  of  emotion  as 
age  after  age  had  rolled  by,  came  to  dominate  the 
feelings  of  all.  The  voices  of  the  people  took  on 
a  deep  and  husky  tone  that  lingered  in  the  ear. 
Their  eyes  under  the  compact  eyebrows  gazed  pen- 
sively forwards  in  sober  and  as  it  were  ceremonial 
peace  in  the  simplest  duties  of  their  daily  toil.  The 
lips  were  kept  tightly  closed,  and  their  silent  own- 
ers seemed  ever  to  be  listening  to  voices  from 
within. 

A  strong  race  flourished  there,  a  people  trained 
to  self-mastery  but  quick  to  heed  the  inward  mo- 
tions of  the  soul,  silent  in  its  activities,  still  more 
silent  in  its  joy. 

II 

One  day  a  man  died  there,  and  as  several  mis- 
haps had  already  shaken  the  prosperity  of  that 
house,  the  children  had  now  to  leave  their  home 
and   seek   service   among   strangers.   The   eldest 


HIDDEN  FIRES  195 

daughter's  name  was  Ingert;  she  was  not  yet  quite 
full-grown,  but  bade  fair  to  be  tall  and  strong  and 
handsome.  She  came  to  a  neighboring  farm  where 
the  master  of  the  house  was  young  and  unmarried, 
and  had  his  mother  living  with  him.  It  was  a  well- 
respected,  comfortable  dwelling,  and  she  found  a 
good  home  there.  More  and  more  charges  de- 
volved upon  her  in  proportion  as  her  strength  and 
intellect  ripened,  and  this  made  her  easier  in  mind, 
since  now  she  felt  she  had  her  duty  to  fulfil,  though 
otherwise  it  vexed  her  much  that  she  had  fallen 
from  her  independent  state  and  must  now  do  an- 
other's bidding.  Hardest  of  all  was  it  to  be  in  that 
position  so  near  home,  where  those  who  saw  her 
might  be  thinking  the  same  thoughts  as  herself, 
so  that  she  had  to  guard  herself  against  their  sus- 
pected pity. 

At  length  the  two  young  people  began  to  take 
an  interest  in  each  other.  They  showed  it  neither 
by  look  nor  word,  rather  they  became  more  dis- 
tant and  almost  surly  in  their  manners.  Both  con- 
cealed their  feelings  with  a  kind  of  uneasiness 
which  grew  more  shy  and  proud  as  their  affection 
ripened.  Why  It  should  be  so  they  did  not  clearly 
realize,  any  more  than  they  would  have  asked  why 
the  cloud-shadow  came,  bringing  wind  and  cold;  it 
was  there,  and  one  only  wrapped  one's  garment 
closer  round  one.  Did  they  probe  their  inner  na- 
tures at  all,  it  seemed  to  them  that  love  like  theirs 


196  PER  HALLSTROM 

could  find  no  answering  love  so  deep  and  strong: 
that  was  as  hard  as  for  a  storm  to  blow  from  two 
different  quarters  at  once.  In  their  humility 
they  thought  that  they  could  never  inspire  in  each 
other  any  such  emotion  as  they  felt,  yet  neither 
would  have  been  content  with  anything  less  genuine 
in  the  answer  than  in  the  call.  The  girl,  too, 
found  her  poverty  a  hindrance  to  any  thoughts  of 
marriage. 

For  the  rest  it  was  happiness  enough  just  to  live 
at  each  other's  side  and  let  their  daily  labors  fill 
the  hours  in  peace  of  conscience.  For  long  years 
they  would  hardly  have  thought  of  requiring  any- 
thing more.  Nor  would  the  young  man  have  wished 
to  go  against  his  mother,  who  had  no  desire  to 
see  a  daughter  in  the  house.  She  had  a  cancer  in 
the  breast,  and  knew  that  her  days  were  numbered. 
The  short  time  she  had  yet  to  live  she  wished  to 
pass  undisturbed,  feeling  her  will  rule  strong  and 
firm  until  the  hour  came  when  it  must  break  up 
and  pass  away.  Darkly  yet  bravely  she  looked  on 
life,  and  would  have  no  mask  of  joy  to  hide  it.  It 
could  play  on  in  its  own  fashion  when  she  was 
gone,  she  said,  but  she  herself  refused  to  smile  and 
twist  her  mouth  any  more,  knowing  well  how  little 
that  was  worth.  She  took  a  fancy  to  Ingert  pre- 
cisely on  account  of  the  girl's  silence,  which  she 
believed  to  be  grounded  in  the  same  coldness  as 
her  own,  and  was  kinder  to  her  than  to  others  since 


HIDDEN  FIRES  197 

she  received  no  unnecessary  confidences  In  return. 
And  so  passed  the  days  until  she  died. 

But  now  the  young  man — Gabriel  was  his 
name — knew  that  if  he  ever  was  to  speak  at  all  it 
must  be  in  connection  with  the  changes  following 
upon  his  mother's  death.  Yet  this  offended  his 
sense  of  what  was  fitting,  for  after  such  a  loss  it 
seemed  ungrateful  so  soon  to  fill  the  gap  and  turn 
sorrow  into  gladness.  His  mother  had  filled  a 
great  place  and  left  a  vivid  and  impressive  memory 
behind  her;  even  the  curious  chilly  feeling  of  the 
air  in  the  rooms  had  something  pure  and  still  about 
it  that  ought  not  to  be  disturbed.  The  dead  womaa 
was  among  them  yet,  and  her  spirit  must  not  be 
frightened  out  into  the  darkness  to  gaze  through 
the  window  at  others  in  their  joy. 

This  alone  he  could  do  and  must  do :  he  would 
talk  to  Ingert  and  ask  if  she  were  willing  to  remain 
in  the  house,  though  he  was  now  alone,  and 
take  control  in  place  of  his  dead  mother. 
Time  would  then  have  a  chance  to  bring  with  it 
that  which  was  to  follow,  if  indeed  it  ever  came 
at  all. 

But  when  he  put  his  question  to  her,  with  voice 
well  under  control  and  not  a  word  too  many,  he 
could  not  at  the  same  time  control  his  glance.  It 
smiled  at  and  caressed  the  possibilities  of  the  fu- 
ture; a  gleam  came  into  his  eye  as  they  stood  there 
on  the  front  doorstep   on   that   March   evening, 


198  PER  HALLSTROM 

looking  out  over  the  snow  with  the  spring  light 
upon  it.  And  Ingert  saw  the  gleam. 

Now  Ingert  was  very  proud  and  thought  rap- 
idly and  clearly. 

He  has  never  looked  at  me  so  before,  she  re- 
flected: he  thinks  I  am  pretty,  he  knows  I  am  poor, 
and  he  would  have  me  stay  here  alone  with  him. 
Had  he  thought  any  more  of  me,  had  he  meant 
anything  further,  he  would  have  said  so  now.  It 
might  be  my  shame  to  stay,  for  I  could  deny  him 
nothing  if  he  asked  me  right.  Or  even  if  he  only 
made  believe  to  love  me.  I  know  what  ideas  a  man 
might  take  into  his  head  if  we  got  used  to  living 
here  quietly  alone  together. 

And  just  because  her  own  love  was  so  deep, 
she  put  a  tighter  curb  upon  her  inward  feelings. 
She  knew  quite  well  that  if  things  turned  out  as 
she  had  feared,  with  a  man  of  honor  like  Gabriel 
it  would  lead  to  marriage.  Or,  if  she  played  her 
cards  well,  she  might  draw  him  on  in  perfectly 
honorable  fashion,  notwithstanding  her  poverty. 
But  this  happiness,  if  indeed  the  word  were  fitting, 
should  not  be  won  with  the  slightest  guile  or  mean- 
ness— not  by  her,  and  not  with  him,  although  as 
far  as  others  were  concerned  she  looked  upon  such 
matters  with  the  absence  of  prejudice  common  in 
her  circle.  Now  I  must  pluck  up  courage,  she 
thought,  and  there  and  then  she  found  It  in  abun- 
dance and  her  resolve  stood  fast. 


HIDDEN  FIRES  199 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  will  not  stay." 

The  gleam  died  out  from  Gabriel's  eyes.  He, 
too,  cast  up  accounts  with  his  love,  and  came  to 
hard  and  serious  conclusions. 

There's  no  answering  love  in  her,  thought  he, 
and  I  had  never  expected  it,  either.  Only  that  per- 
haps one  day  ....  But  that  was  not  so  certain. 
She  is  right,  and  if  she  feels  that  way,  'tis  best  to 
break  off  here  and  now. 

And  after  that  it  was  more  impossible  than  ever 
for  him  even  to  let  her  catch  a  hint  of  his  real  mean- 
ing. Their  farewells  were  curt  but  friendly.  As 
good  master  and  good  servant  they  parted,  but 
very  heavy  were  the  steps  that  led  them  from  each 
other. 

Ill 

Ingert  would  not  stay  in  the  neighborhood.  To 
be  there,  drifting  farther  and  farther  from  him 
as  time  went  by,  to  see  him  take  a  wife,  to  dance 
at  his  wedding,  meet  his  children — these  things 
she  could  not  do.  Should  chance  once  more  bring 
them  together,  her  shame  would  threaten  her 
anew,  for  now  more  than  ever  she  felt  that  it  was 
to  him  she  belonged.  She  went  away  in  search  of 
another  place,  some  distance  down  the  river,  and 
therefore  farther  south,  among  the  plains. 

She  found  work  with  a  peasant  named  Nils. 
He  had  much  land  and  many  laborers  under  him, 
was  respected  by  all,  and  was  an  upright,  sober 


200  PER  HALLSTROAI 

man.  Not  long  before  she  came,  he  had  been  left 
a  widower  with  one  little  son. 

He  thought  very  highly  of  the  stranger  who 
went  about  her  work  with  quiet  dignity  and  yet 
achieved  more  than  others  in  their  mirth.  She 
seemed  to  belong  to  another  circle  than  that  of 
her  fellow-servants,  although  without  voluntarily 
holding  herself  aloof  from  them.  But  what  made 
it  seem  so,  apart  from  the  disposition  Nature  had 
given  her,  and  the  still  slightly  rankling  memory 
that  she  was  born  in  another  class,  was  her 
love  and  her  longing  for  the  one  she  had  left 
behind. 

Had  he  felt  as  I  do,  she  thought,  he  would  have 
followed  by  now  and  fetched  me  back;  and  I  should 
have  gone  with  him  at  once.  For  'tis  there  with 
him  I  am  now,  though  I  seem  to  live  here.  Every 
night  it  must  be  there  I  go,  though  afterwards  I 
have  no  memory  of  what  I  saw.  His  voice  I  still 
hear  in  my  waking  hours,  with  the  strange  echo 
that  clings  up  there  to  every  tone.  I  should  be  less 
tired  if  my  feet  could  really  wear  themselves  out 
on  the  paths  to  his  home.  It  is  well  that  no  chance 
brings  him  near,  for  then  would  my  fate  be  sealed. 
.This  can  go  on  no  longer:  I  must,  I  must  forget. 

So  when  in  course  of  time  her  master  asked  her 
If  she  would  be  his  wife,  she  turned  pale  Instead 
of  red. 

Fate  will  have  It  so,  she  mused.  She  means  well 


HIDDEN  FIRES  20i 

and  kindly  by  me,  and  if  she  bows  my  head  so  as 
to  hurt  me,  it  is  but  that  I  may  see  my  salvation. 
Only  in  duty  have  I  yet  found  my  rest,  even  when 
that  rest  was  scanty  and  soon  disturbed.  If  I  now 
take  my  duty  still  more  seriously,  I  know  that  it 
will  yield  me  more,  although  it  cost  more  also. 
Then  I  must  learn  to  rule  my  thoughts,  and  even 
in  my  secret  heart  I  shall  be  as  I  ought  to  be.  The 
man  who  offers  me  his  hand  has  never  thought 
otherwise  than  highly  of  me.  More  than  I  can 
give  he  has  not  required — my  life  shall  be  his. 
The  old  Hfe  must  die.  It  shall  be  put  far,  far  away 
from  me,  and  the  way  to  it  shall  be  forever  closed. 

So  she  accepted  his  offer  and  in  due  time  became 
his  wife.  As  such,  she  behaved  just  as  before,  and 
was  not  a  whit  less  silent  and  serious.  Many 
thought  she  took  pride  in  her  place,  but  as  this 
pride  was  not  ill-suited  to  the  quiet  dignity  of  her 
young  nature,  she  forfeited  no  respect  on  that 
account. 

It  was  some  months  before  the  news  reached  her 
native  village.  All  this  time  Gabriel  had  been  rest- 
less and  disturbed,  though  no  one  knew  the  reason. 
To  sit  brooding  over  lost  happiness  was  not  his 
nature,  nor  was  it  so  that  this  upland  people  looked 
on  life.  They  demanded  much  of  themselves,  and 
should  that  not  suffice  to  bring  peace,  they  made 
still  further  demands  and  pressed  on.  So  it  was 
with  Gabriel. 


202  PER  HALLSTR5M 

In  order  to  fill  up  the  time,  since  the  winter's 
work  would  leave  a  good  many  hours  on  his  hands, 
he  took  to  adding  to  his  farm,  though  it  was  al- 
ready too  large  for  him.  Needless  extravagance  of 
this  kind  was  no  more  unusual  then  in  these  north- 
ern districts  than  it  is  to-day,  and  if  any  wondered 
why  he  did  so  all  alone,  they  never  went  beyond 
the  supposition  that  he  felt  it  difficult  to  keep  on 
living  with  the  memory  of  his  mother  in  the  house. 
He  himself  let  the  explanation  pass.  He  was  un- 
willing to  call  in  aid,  and  with  his  own  hands 
fetched  every  log  of  wood  from  the  forest.  There 
he  heard  how  every  blow  of  the  axe  against  the 
frozen  wood,  ringing  clear  in  the  frosty  air,  called 
forth  answering  sounds  from  far  within  the  hills, 
where  the  chains  of  the  wood-sledge  also  rattled. 
It  was  as  if,  alongside  of  his  building,  another  was 
growing  up  In  a  region  hidden  from  mortal  view, 
some  enterprise  like  his  own,  mysterious  and  dark 
In  purpose,  but  greater  and  mightier,  as  everything 
Is  greater  behind  the  doors  of  the  unknown. 

Sometimes  he  would  say  to  himself:  I  have  let 
my  happiness  go  from  me,  and  now  I  am  building 
for  it  a  house  that  will  always  be  empty.  But  still 
I  will  get  it  ready.  What  are  they  building  in  there  ? 
Is  their  lot  like  ours?  But  what  do  I  know  of  my 
lot!  Perhaps  Fate  wills  that  one  day  the  house 
shall  not  be  empty:  Ingert  may  feel  as  I  do.  Then 
she  will  come  back,  and  the  cottage  shall  shine  to 


HIDDEN  FIRES  203 

welcome  her  and  tell  her  that  she  has  never  been 
out  of  my  thoughts.  On,  then!  But  anyhow  'tis 
well  to  work  oneself  tired  and  sleep  well. — He 
had  got  the  roof  on  and  the  rooms  were  now  ready, 
white-washed,  and  echoing  in  their  emptiness. 

Then  came  the  news  of  what  had  happened. 
And  now  he  could  saw  and  plane  no  longer,  and  the 
hours  dragged  heavily.  I  cannot  stay  here,  said  he  : 
I  have  nothing  to  think  of,  nothing  to  see  to  now. 
She  did  not  care  for  me,  and  she  can  never  come 
back. — He  realized  that  It  was  for  her  alone  he 
had  been  building,  and  that  all  the  time  a  mighty 
hope  had  been  inspiring  his  labors. 

He  forged  a  lock  and  set  It  on  the  door,  and 
that  done,  there  was  no  longer  anything  to  bind 
him  to  the  place. 

I  will  go  and  seek  her,  he  resolved.  It  can  make 
no  difference  to  her,  for  she  can  never  have  given 
a  thought  to  me  and  mine.  I  will  say  that  I  have 
become  poor,  and  have  had  to  go  out  to  work  as 
she  did  before.  She  will  find  me  work  If  she  can, 
for  we  parted  friends.  In  those  days  I  was  happy 
If  I  could  only  be  In  her  presence.  I  can  be  just 
as  happy  now,  for  she  was  no  nearer  to  me  then. 
Or  I  may  be  wretched — but  no  matter,  so  that  I 
can  be  where  she  Is. 

So  he  left  his  farm  to  others,  said  that  he  wished 
to  see  something  of  the  world,  and  vanished.  No 
one  knew  where  or  wherefore,  but  his  explanation 


204  PER  HALLSTROxM 

was  accepted.  Such  things  had  happened  before  in 
those  parts.  Men  in  sudden  weariness  and  desire 
for  change  had  let  go  all  that  they  had  as  of  little 
worth,  in  order  to  prove  that  which  they  knew 
not,  and  which  therefore  seemed  worth  living  for. 

IV 

One  morning  a  stranger  seeking  work  came  to 
Nils  as  he  labored  In  the  forest. 

Standing  there  in  the  snow,  changing  posture 
with  unconstrained  and  easy  motions,  the  stranger 
looked  at  the  peasant  with  a  deep  and  searching 
gaze  before  revealing  his  errand.  It  was  as  though 
he  wished  to  weigh  the  other  and  see  what  manner 
of  man  he  was  ere  he  made  any  request;  and  this 
pleased  Nils,  who  knew  his  own  worth  and  re- 
quired worth  In  others  also. 

There  was  work  to  be  had,  and  there  and  then 
the  stranger  was  able  to  show  what  he  could  do. 
None  could  come  near  him  In  strength  and  skill, 
and  Nils  resolved  to  engage  him  as  his  man  when 
he  had  asked  his  history  and  received  satisfactory 
answers  to  confirm  his  good  impressions.  The  man 
shared  the  laborers'  food,  and  In  the  evening  went 
with  the  team  home. 

Ingert  stood  on  the  hearth  and  saw  them  come 
In,  a  silent  file,  axe  In  hand,  entering  with  the  long 
and  gentle  strides  with  which  they  had  marched 
through  the  forest.  First  came  her  husband,  then 


HIDDEN  FIRES  205 

the  others  in  order  of  age,  and  lastly,  when  the 
door  was  about  to  be  closed,  the  stranger. 

She  turned  pale,  and  her  look  stole  past  him 
so  swiftly  that  she  seemed  not  to  have  marked 
him  at  all.  He  stood  motionless,  with  a  sub- 
dued trembling,  while  the  other  mute  figures 
laid  down  their  tools  and  formed  a  circle  round 
the  fire. 

Now,  Gabriel  had  meant  to  feign  surprise,  to 
go  and  speak  to  her  with  every  gesture  well  under 
control,  and  tell  her  how  strange  it  seemed  to  him 
to  find  her  there.  At  her  question  he  would  then 
repeat  the  story  he  had  got  by  heart.  She  would 
sympathize  in  a  half  distant  manner,  and  perhaps 
with  some  annoyance,  too,  since  their  positions 
were  now  so  curiously  reversed;  but,  anyhow,  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  re-ceive  her  patronage  and 
hear  her  voice  again.  But  in  the  blaze  of  the  fire- 
light he  saw  only  her  glance,  her  paleness,  and 
her  trembling;  something  seized  his  heart  with 
an  iron  grip,  and  kept  back  every  word.  Least  of 
all  could  he  have  let  his  first  words,  his  first 
gestures,  before  her  be  a  lie.  He  had  not  reckoned 
with  that. 

"I  have  brought  a  man  with  me  from  the  forest, 
as  you  see,"  said  Nils. 

Not  even  then  did  Ingert  look  at  him.  She  gazed 
at  the  quivering  shadow  behind  and  above  him, 
and  quaked  at  the  thought  of  hearing  his  voice. 


2o6  PER  HALLSTROxM 

Long  ago  now  it  had  faded  from  her  dreams,  but 
there  would  still  be  about  it  those  echoes  of  the 
past. 

"I  see,"  was  her  only  answer. 

"I  mean  to  have  him  here,"  continued  her  hus- 
band, "since  there  is  a  place  empty  and  he  wants 
work.  See  that  he  has  what  he  needs." 

The  affair  being  so  simple,  Nils  never  troubled 
to  notice  how  his  words  were  received.  This  was 
a  matter  that  belonged  to  his  domain,  and  a  brief 
explanation  was  enough.  Had  he  looked  at  his 
wife  he  would  have  been  surprised. 

Ingert  turned  paler  than  ever,  and  made  a  little 
movement  towards  her  heart,  as  though  some- 
thing had  pierced  it.  But  she  forced  the  hand  down 
again  before  it  could  reach  her  bosom..  This  was 
done  in  broken  jerks,  and  not  without  a  struggle. 
She  mastered,  too,  the  tones  of  her  voice  before 
she  answered,  but  still  they  sounded  expression- 
less and  curt. 

"Very  well,  I'll  see  to  it." 

Nils  paid  no  heed  to  her  manner,  tireii  as  he  was, 
and  unsuspecting.  The  others  thought:  She  doesn't 
like  this  to  have  come  so  suddenly,  and  perhaps 
it  vexes  her  that  he  should  have  managed  it  by 
himself.  She  has  a  will  of  her  own,  we  know. — 
But  they  found  nothing  very  remarkable  about 
the  whole  affair. 

Gabriel  stood  motionless  and  unobserved,  gaz- 


HIDDEN  FIRES  207 

ing  and  gazing  as  she  turned  once  more  to  the 
fire  that  blazed  high  behind  her  with  the  fuel  she 
had  thrown  on  to  occupy  her  trembling  hands. 

Why  should  she  turn  so  pale,  thought  he.  Is 
she  vexed?  Doesn't  she  like  to  be  reminded  of  the 
time  when  I  was  master  of  the  house?  I  ought  to 
have  thought  of  that.  It  isn't  kind  of  her,  now 
that  she  sees  me  poor.  Not  even  to  speak  to  me! 
But,  anyhow,  I  understand,  and  I  must  go.  But 
no,  there  is  something  more.  What  is  it  that  has 
caught  her  heart,  just  as  it  gripped  mine?  Is  it  the 
same  thing?  God  in  heaven,  have  I  been  mistaken? 
Is  my  misery  far,  far  greater  than  I  thought?  Or 
is  it  not  joy  instead,  joy  in  sorrow,  joy  such  as  I 
shall  never  reach,  but  joy  anyhow? 

In  the  columns  of  sparks  from  the  fire,  the  red 
embers  that  glowed  like  a  fairy  castle  and  crum- 
bled to  pieces  like  corrupting  limbs  from  which 
life  has  long  since  fled,  he  saw  their  ruined  future, 
their  hard  and  bitter  fate.  All  that  evening  he  sat 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  flames,  in  bitterness  and 
woe,  in  pain  and  solemn  mourning.  But  he  was  not 
quite  sure  that  he  had  guessed  aright,  and  could 
not  come  to  a  resolve.  In  his  weariness  and  under 
the  enchantment  of  the  fire  he  seemed  also  to 
have  a  right  to  the  poor  joy  that  had  become  his 
own.  As  she  passed  to  and  fro,  without  even  ap- 
pearing to  notice  that  he  was  there,  his  ears  fol- 
lowed  her   steps,    guessed   at  her   hidden   heart- 


2o8  PER  HALLSTROM 

throbs,  and  even  had  an  Inkling  of  her  buried 
thoughts. 

But  Ingert  was  thinlcing:  He  loves  me.  Why 
else  should  he  have  come?  All  is  over  with  me 
now;  I  can  never  find  peace  any  more.  My  life  will 
burn  away  down  there  in  the  fire  on  that  hearth. — 
When  she  was  alone  in  the  room  with  Nils  and 
could  speak  freely,  she  said: 

"You  ought  not  to  have  that  man  here." 

He  was  surprised.  The  matter  was  done  with 
and  already  forgotten. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Why  not?" 

"You  know  nothing  about  him.  I  don't  like  it." 

More  she  could  not  say,  for  even  to  hint  at  what 
had  been  between  them  would  be  to  open  all  her 
soul,  lay  bare  her  heart's  wound.  At  the  moment 
of  confession  all  would  be  over  between  her  hus- 
band and  herself,  and  she  had  her  duty  and  her 
marriage  vow  to  think  of. 

For  the  first  time  Nils  was  annoyed  with  her. 

"That's  my  business,"  he  answered.  "He  has 
told  me  all  he  needed,  and  he  has  my  promise,  too." 

By  that  she  understood  that  his  decision  could 
not  be  altered  and  that  she  must  submit  to  it,  how- 
ever impossible  that  might  seem.  She  lay  awake 
the  whole  night  thinking. 

Perhaps  he  will  go  away  of  himself,  she  pon- 
dered. But  no,  he  will  not  do  that.  We  have  parted 
once,  but  this  Is  for  ever,  for  life  and  death.  My 


HIDDEN  FIRES  209 

duty  is  to  drive  him  away,  whether  there  is  any 
hope  or  not.  As  things  have  come  about,  not  a 
word  must  be  exchanged  between  us.  Not  a  look 
must  show  what  we  were,  and  still  are,  to  one 
another.  The  time  is  past  when  words  could  have 
helped.  There  is  fire  between  us  now,  and  how- 
ever it  may  burn  and  eat  away  the  heart,  not  a 
gesture  must  reveal  the  pain. 

V 

Next  morning  she  was  pale  from  lack  of  sleep, 
but  held  herself  erect  and  went  about  her  duties. 
To  the  stranger  she  spoke  not  a  word  as  she 
handed  him  his  food  with  the  others. 

His  heart  was  aching  W'ith  resigned  sorrow, 
and  her  gift  felt  humiliating  and  heavy  in  his  hand. 

I  was  wrong,  of  course,  thought  he;  that  was 
only  a  foolish  dream  yesterday.  It's  annoyance  she 
feels.  But  if  I  am  nothing  to  her,  my  being  here 
can  matter  little  compared  with  what  it  means 
for  me  to  see  her  face.  Besides,  how  could  I  go 
away  without  a  word?  There  is  no  help  for  it: 
even  if  I  never  found  out  the  truth  I  should  have 
to  come  back  again.  That  fire  in  the  evening  draws 
me  to  it  like  a  bird  of  night. 

The  others  thought:  It  was  as  we  supposed. 
She  has  a  grudge  against  him.  She  cannot  bear  to 
have  him  in  the  house  without  her  sanction. 

Nils  came  to  the  same  conclusion.  I  should  never 


210  PER  HALLSTROM 

have  thought  it  of  her,  said  he  to  himself.  But 
that's  the  way  of  women.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong 
in  denying  her — pooh !  it  can't  be  helped  now,  and 
it  will  pass,  like  everything  else. 

But  it  did  not  pass,  and  matters  became  no  differ- 
ent. For  almost  a  year  the  stranger  went  to  and 
fro  about  his  work  with  the  other  people  of  the 
farm.  He  did  not  spare  himself,  he  strained  every 
nerve  to  do  his  best,  and  none  got  through  as 
much  work  as  he.  In  the  house  he  took  up  little 
room,  and  made  no  attempt  to  push  himself  for- 
ward. 

But  all  in  vain !  The  goodwif e  would  never 
speak  to  him  or  look  at  him.  When  she  had  to 
hand  him  his  portions  of  food,  she  did  so  without 
any  marked  unfriendliness  but  in  silence,  as  if  he 
were  not  a  human  being  but  one  of  those  super- 
natural and  mysterious  creatures  to  whom  it  was 
the  custom  in  olden  times  to  offer  the  sacrifices  of 
the  house  on  feast-days.  In  equal  silence  he  re- 
ceived her  gifts,  and  seemed  to  find  no  strange- 
ness in  her  behavior.  He  merely  bent  his  head, 
and  when  there  was  a  fire  on  the  hearth  he  would 
sit  staring  into  it,  serious,  but  as  it  seemed  con- 
tented, buried  in  his  thoughts  and  dreams. 

And  this  was  what  he  was  thinking  and  dream- 
ing: 

He  was  not  there  among  the  rest,  he  did  not  see 
Ingert's  movements  as  her  comely,  pale,  and  some- 


HIDDEN  FIRES  2ii 

what  proud  figure  passed  to  and  fro  In  the  large 
room :  he  only  heard  her  there.  His  inner  vision 
swiftly  forged  images  out  of  the  impressions  that 
his  ears  received.  Every  night  he  withdrew  to  the 
farm  that  he  had  left  empty  and  unfinished  amid 
the  winter  snows,  far  away  among  the  hard  and 
frozen  hills.  Nor  was  he  alone  there;  all  that  he 
had  craved  and  been  denied  in  life  was  with  him. 
The  silent  woman  who  possessed  his  soul  and 
would  not  even  lower  her  gaze  to  meet  it,  looked 
upon  him  now  with  clear,  deep,  radiant  eyes;  here, 
too,  she  talked  with  him.  They  wept  and  rejoiced 
together.  The  spell  that  lay  upon  them  was  broken, 
life  would  begin  afresh  here.  But  all  was  not  yet 
ready  for  that;  with  glad  but  measured  steps 
would  they  go  to  meet  it.  All  the  plans  which  he 
had  never  brought  to  completion  but  had  left  be- 
hind him  to  freeze  up,  as  it  were,  like  unborn  souls, 
now  came  to  their  fulfilment.  Far  finer  than  any 
he  had  ever  seen  or  dreamed  of  were  the  house- 
hold articles  that  were  to  fill  the  rooms,  as  they 
now  took  shape  under  his  loving  care:  they  were 
rich  and  splendid  as  the  treasures  of  the  gnomes 
who  began  their  building  with  his.  One  by  one  they 
were  ready,  and  every  time  he  and  she  rejoiced 
like  two  children  over  their  possessions,  and  ad- 
mired them  for  long  together.  But  just  then  part 
of  the  dream  fabric  would  escape  his  grasp  and 
vanish,  or  the  whole  space  between  them  might 


212  PER  HALLSTROM 

stand  empty.  That  surprised  him  not  at  all.  It  is 
always  so  with  happiness,  he  thought;  one  cannot 
hold  it  fast  in  its  completeness  and  entirety.  Be- 
sides, he  would  have  to  do  still  better  to  make 
things  worthy  of  her:  there  was  no  lack  of  time. 
To  work  once  more,  then,  and  with  a  good  cour- 
age !  Such  a  dear  and  holy  task  it  was  !  .  .  .  .  And 
never  tiring,  he  began  his  dream-labors  anew. 

He  would  sit  with  a  quiet  smile,  the  glow  of 
reflected  fires  in  his  eyes.  Never  were  the  evening 
hours  too  long  for  him. 

But  every  morning,  when  he  met  Ingert,  he 
flashed  upon  her  a  swift,  inquiring,  beseeching 
look:  Will  it  come  soon?  Have  you  forgotten  how 
it  used  to  be?  And  although  she  turned  away,  he 
saw  that  his  glance  had  struck  home;  a  pale  gleam 
would  light  up  her  face,  and  her  hand  would  twitch 
in  a  speedily  arrested  movement  upwards. 

I  am  tormenting  her,  thought  he.  Whatever  be 
the  reason,  a  great  thing  or  a  small,  the  same 
steel  has  pierced  both  our  hearts.  I  should  never 
have  come  here,  and  I  must  not  stay. 

But  all  the  day  he  longed  for  her,  and  was 
drawn  back  again.  He  was  as  if  bewitched,  and 
felt  that  his  will  was  no  longer  in  his  power. 

I  have  met  my  fate  as  it  has  been  meted  out 
to  me,  he  thought;  and  I  do  not  complain,  either, 
for  I  have  her  near  me.  All  this  of  course  means 
nothing  to  her;  it  is  only  her  wounded  pride.  I  was 


HIDDEN  FIRES  213 

her  master,  and  I  remind  her  of  days  she  would 
rather  forget. 

The  whole  situation,  too,  had  become  a  habit 
which  could  not  be  broken. 

Nils  and  the  other  members  of  the  household 
had  also  grown  accustomed  to  the  atmosphere 
which  the  stranger  had  brought  with  him  Into  the 
house,  and  for  the  most  part  were  not  aware  of 
any  difference.  In  order  to  make  her  coldness  to 
him  less  noticeable  and  to  clear  it  from  suspicion, 
Ingert  had  become  very  sparing  In  her  words  to 
all,  speaking  no  more  than  was  necessary.  It  is 
her  nature,  they  thought,  and  they  found  her 
comely  In  the  pride  and  dignity  of  her  youth,  and 
hardly  wished  her  otherwise,  especially  as  there 
was  nothing  lacking  In  the  performance  of  her 
duties. 

To  her  husband's  child  she  now  transferred  all 
that  could  find  no  expression  elsewhere.  She  be- 
came the  tenderest  of  mothers  to  the  boy,  but  a 
mother  without  gladness,  giving,  but  expecting 
nothing  In  return.  When  he  was  sick,  she  would 
carry  him  to  and  fro  for  hours,  soothing  him  to 
sleep  and  listening  to  his  moaning  and  the  sound 
of  her  own  measured  steps.  Then  she  would  sit 
oblivious  of  everything,  rocking  him  In  her  arms 
as  If  it  were  a  grief  she  bore,  staring  out  over  his 
flaxen  head  towards  the  shadows  as  they  thick- 
ened, and  the  darkness  that  swept  up  from  the 


214  PER  HALLSTROM 

floor  like  a  river  in  flood.  If  she  were  called  away, 
it  was  with  regret  and  as  though  torn  from  some 
pleasant  task  that  she  laid  down  her  burden.  The 
child  was  fond  of  her  in  return,  but  in  his  own 
fashion.  He  attached  himself  to  her,  but  seldom 
smiled  in  her  presence.  He  grew  quiet  and  thought- 
ful, as  though  he  had  caught  in  the  grave  and 
terrifying  future  a  glimpse  of  the  world  in  which 
his  elders  lived. 

Nils  thought  still  more  highly  of  his  wife  be- 
cause she  acted  thus  by  his  motherless  boy,  and 
could  see  no  fault  in  her,  though  it  did  sometimes 
surprise  him  that  their  life  had  grown  so  strangely 
ceremonial.  But  that  did  not  displease  him,  either, 
for  his  was  a  slow  and  deliberate  nature,  entirely 
taken  up  by  the  performance  of  duty. 

And  so  passed  the  time  for  them  all. 

VI 

One  day,  when  winter  had  come  again,  some- 
thing happened. 

They  were  out  In  the  woods,  felling  trees.  There 
had  been  a  heavy  snowfall,  which,  beginning  in 
mist  and  rain,  had  cleared  the  air  for  a  sharp  frost 
afterwards.  The  snow  had  therefore  collected 
upon  the  branches  of  the  tall  fi.r  trees  in  heavy 
masses  which  hung  there  like  monstrous  slumber- 
ing creatures,  and  gripped  so  firmly  with  their  slug- 
gish limbs  that  hardly  anything  was  shaken  off  by 


HIDDEN  FIRES  215 

the  blows  of  the  axe  on  the  Iron-hard  wood.  Nils 
forgot  to  take  into  account  this  extra  weight,  and 
stayed  too  long  hewing  at  the  roots  of  a  great 
tree.  All  at  once  the  trunk  snapped  like  a  glass  rod 
and  fell  right  over  him. 

The  others  heard  the  crash  follow  too  close 
upon  the  last  stroke,  and  all  understood  the  dan- 
ger, but  none  found  time  to  think  what  was  to  be 
done.  Only  the  stranger  sprang  forwards,  swift 
as  a  bird  of  prey,  caught  his  master  to  him  just 
as  the  falling  trunk  was  grazing  his  head,  hurled 
him  to  the  ground  beneath  his  own  body,  and  so 
saved  him.  But  he  could  not  draw  away  his  hand 
quickly  enough.  The  tree  caught  it,  and  the  end 
of  an  old  broken  twig  in  the  bark  tore  in  it  a  deep, 
wide  gash. 

Nils  rose  to  his  feet  and  stared  In  confusion 
at  his  rescuer  before  he  could  realize  the  full  ex- 
tent of  his  indebtedness.  Even  then,  in  the  midst 
of  his  gratitude,  he  was  amazed  at  the  stranger's 
appearance. 

Gabriel,  pale  but  with  shining  eyes,  stood  with 
a  curious,  hard  smile  upon  his  features,  watching 
his  blood  run  down  upon  the  white  snow.  Not  a 
feature  was  distorted  by  the  pain;  on  the  contrary, 
his  sufferings  seemed  to  bring  him  satisfaction  and 
relief.  He  stared  at  the  red  drops  as  they  fell,  as 
though  they  had  formed  a  writing  the  sense  of 
which  was  of  grave  Importance  for  him  and  fur- 


2i6  PER  HALLSTROM 

nished  the  answer  to  a  host  of  questions.  His  Hps 
moved  gently,  and  he  said  within  himself:  "It  was 
so,  then !  I  ought  to  have  done  it,  and  I  did.  I  have 
learned  to  know  myself." 

He  was  as  far  away  from  all  about  him  as  when 
he  sat  every  evening  by  the  hearth,  and  was  rapt 
in  his  dreams  now  as  then. 

There  was  no  question  of  thanks,  for  these  men 
were  wont  to  be  sparing  of  their  words  and  feel- 
ings, but  Nils  touched  the  damaged  hand  with 
something  akin  to  reverence  as  he  examined  the 
cut.  He  advised  a  speedy  return  home.  It  might  be 
dangerous,  he  said,  if  the  cold  got  into  the  wound. 

The  stranger's  eyes  flashed  at  the  mention  of 
going  home  alone,  and  now  his  comrades  noticed 
how  white  the  accident  had  made  him.  But  he 
fought  down  his  weakness,  his  look  became  calm, 
and  he  was  himself  again.  He  would  not  listen  to 
the  proposal,  the  blood  could  flow  as  long  as  it 
liked,  and  only  against  his  will  would  he  after- 
wards consent  to  have  his  hand  bound  up.  "Time 
enough  to  see  to  it  at  night,"  said  he. 

When  they  came  home  it  was  the  goodwife's 
task  to  dress  the  wound.  In  a  few  words  they  told 
her  what  had  happened  and  what  the  stranger 
had  done. 

Now  she  will  surely  speak  to  him  at  last,  was  the 
general  thought;  now  at  any  rate  the  silence  will 
be  broken.   And   for  this  reason  they  all  gazed 


HIDDEN  FIRES  217 

expectantly  upon  her.  Gabriel  tried  to  keep  in  the 
background  and  hid  his  hand  as  if  in  shame,  the 
clotted  blood  and  ice  rustling  at  every  movement. 
But  he  was  pushed  forwards  to  meet  her  in  the 
firelight. 

Ingert  was  deadly  pale.  It  seemed  as  if  she  real 
ized  the  full  extent  of  the  averted  peril;  it  was 
clear,  too,  they  thought,  how  the  idea  of  her  threat- 
ened loss  affected  her.  Ingert  was  pale  as  death, 
and  could  not  now  control  her  trembling. 

Her  eyes  opened  wider  and  wider,  her  breathing 
became  short  and  strong,  and  there  was  a  quiver- 
ing at  once  violent  and  restrained  about  the  corners 
of  her  mouth,  as  though  some  agitated  and  be- 
wildered speech  were  trying  to  break  forth.  But 
she  kept  back  the  words.  She  did  not  even  look 
at  the  stranger,  only  at  his  hand. 

There  must  be  something  hard  and  cold  as  ice 
about  her,  they  said  to  themselves,  and  turned 
away  their  looks  in  some  vexation.  The  two  stood 
there  as  if  alone,  amid  the  silence  and  the  red 
sheen. 

Ingert  heated  water,  washed  away  the  ice  and 
blood,  and  took  off  the  bandage.  Thereupon  the 
blood  began  to  flow  again.  She  was  on  the  point 
of  swooning  at  the  sight,  but  silently  she  controlled 
herself  and  did  what  she  had  to  do.  She  managed, 
also,  well-nigh  to  subdue  the  trembling  of  her 
hands. 


2i8  PER  HALLSTROM 

The  injured  man  stood  with  a  strange  smile 
upon  his  face,  just  as  when  he  was  hurt;  he,  too, 
was  very  pale,  but  his  face  and  eyes  shone.  It  was 
as  if  he  took  pleasure  in  the  pain  when  the  bandage 
was  taken  off  from  the  wound,  but  when  she  gently 
wrapped  it  up  afresh,  his  mouth  twitched  and  he 
nearly  wept.  When  all  was  finished  he  remained 
holding  out  his  hand,  as  if  he  would  have  liked 
to  go  through  it  all  once  more.  It  seemed  to  him 
then  that  her  gesture  for  a  moment  hinted  at  an 
uncertainty  as  to  whether  her  task  was  done.  It 
might  also  mean  that  she,  too,  wished  to  remain 
at  it  a  little  longer.  He  was  sure  that  her  fingers 
trembled,  but  no  more  could  he  learn,  for  her 
eyes  never  once  met  his,  and  she  soon  withdrew. 

All  that  evening  Gabriel  sat  staring  into  the  fire. 
He  was  feverish  now,  and  his  eyes  shone  brighter 
than  ever.  An  expression  of  radiant  joy  kept  pass- 
ing over  his  features  at  the  pictures  that  his  mind's 
eye  conjured  up. 

He  was  far  away  in  the  north  again.  The  warm 
blood  was  dripping  from  his  wound,  and  his  heart 
grew  light.  Like  the  drops,  his  words  poured  forth 
wild  and  red,  and  now  they  found  an  answer.  His 
beloved  was  not  dumb  there.  "You  acted  right," 
said  she.  "Never  would  I  have  come  here  with  you 
had  you  done  otherwise.  Now,  now  we  have  each 
other,  and  nothing  mean  can  find  root  within  our 
thoughts."  ....   But  since  his  hand  was  Injured, 


HIDDEN  FIRES  219 

he  could  not  that  evening  build  up  as  usual  his 
palace  of  joy.  Yet  that  made  no  difference,  the 
hours  were  not  long,  and  they  two  had  the  future 
before  them. 

When  he  went  to  rest  he  was  as  blissfully  tired 
as  a  child  can  be  with  happiness  and  light. 

Every  time  the  wound  was  tended  the  same  thing 
happened.  There  was  no  change  in  their  behavior, 
everything  was  done  in  silence,  at  the  suggestion 
of  others.  At  last  no  further  attention  was  needed, 
and  then  life  was  very  empty  for  Gabriel.  In  the 
end  the  whole  incident  was  forgotten,  and  even 
the  general  surprise  at  Ingert's  hardness  passed 
away. 

Since  the  stranger  had  saved  Nils's  life,  his  de- 
parture was  more  than  ever  out  of  the  question. 
He  had  his  place  there,  and  would  belong  there 
always.  And  all  was  as  before  till  Christmas  came. 

VII 

In  Nils's  family  there  was  kept  up  an  old  custom 
which  had  formerly  been  common  in  that  district. 

When  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  house  set 
off  for  early  morning  church  on  Christmas  Day, 
they  would  take  formal  leave  of  all  the  people  on 
the  farm,  even  though  most  of  these  accompanied 
them  to  service.  The  meaning  of  the  act  was  that 
now,  at  this  greatest  of  festivals,  master  and  serv- 
ant would   free   themselves    from   anything  that 


220  PER  HALLSTROM 

might  have  oppressed  either  side  during  the  work- 
ing days  of  the  year.  They  wished  to  be  quite  free 
from  every  burdensome  thought,  with  consciences 
clear  and  calm,  when  they  appeared  before  their 
God  and  His  infinite  mercy.  All  the  past  should  be 
laid  bare  before  Him  with  its  honest  endeavors, 
which  certainly  might  have  come  short  in  much 
and  little,  but  had  all  the  time  been  meant  for  the 
best.  In  a  few  simple  words  they  prayed  each  other 
forgiveness  for  all  that  should  have  been  other- 
wise, or,  if  the  tears  came  too  near,  contented 
themselves  with  an  eloquent  hand-shake.  In  return 
they  received  thanks  for  the  year  that  had  gone 
and  good  wishes  for  the  coming  year.  It  set  the 
mind  at  rest,  and,  without  reflecting  why,  they  sat 
during  the  journey  and  noticed  how  peaceful  all 
the  stars  of  night  seemed  in  their  infinitude.  The 
more  welcome  for  this  ceremony  were  the  brightly 
burning  little  lights  with  which  the  church  was 
decorated,  and  the  pale  daybreak  afterwards,  with 
its  promise  of  an  approaching  sun. 

The  custom  was  followed  this  year,  too.  Nils 
went  the  round  of  the  well-lighted  room,  looked 
confidingly  into  the  eyes  of  all,  shook  hands  with 
confidence,  and  said  what  he  had  to  say,  briefly, 
but  quietly  and  with  assurance.  Something  child- 
like passed  into  the  sincerity  of  this  otherwise  so 
dignified  and  somewhat  taciturn  man,  and  like  a 
child's  was  their  answering  trust. 


HIDDEN  FIRES  221 

The  last  In  the  circle  was  Gabriel.  His  master's 
grasp  closed  over  the  scar  left  by  the  wound. 

"I  know  best,"  said  he,  "what  you  have  been  to 
me  this  year.  Between  us  two  all  is  well." 

The  stranger  returned  his  gaze  with  a  look  as 
calm  and  honest  as  his  own.  He  answered  that  it 
was  so,  and  gave  his  master  his  good  wishes  and 
his  blessing  for  the  journey.  He  himself  would  not 
go  with  them,  and  now  he  drew  back  unobserved 
from  the  company  and  passed  out  of  the  room. 

Nils  went  to  get  the  sledge  ready  while  his  wife 
took  her  leave. 

For  Ingert  this  task  was  very  hard.  She  shivered 
in  her  agitation,  and  the  candle-lights  pricked  her 
like  needles.  Certainly  she  had  meant  well  by  all 
and  had  done  her  duty,  but  more  than  that  she  had 
not  been  able  to  do.  Cold  and  proud  the  uninitiated 
must  have  thought  her,  and  that  pained  her  now 
more  than  ever.  It  was  some  relief,  however,  to 
perceive  that  Gabriel  had  gone,  for  to  him  she 
could  not  even  that  morning  say  a  word. 

Very  pale,  she  passed  with  rapid  steps  from 
one  to  the  other.  The  clear,  steady  lights  shone' 
round  her;  she  was  lovely  but  delicately  frail,  and 
the  thought  came  to  every  one  that  the  past  twelve 
months  had  taken  more  out  of  her  than  a  year 
should  take.  She  Is  too  young  for  her  task,  they 
thought:  It  cannot  last  long.  She  could  not  say 
much,  but  she  gazed  and  gazed,  and  from  her  eyes 


222  PER  HALLSTROM 

even  these  unobservant  natures  could  divine  some- 
thing of  what  was  passing  in  her  soul.  The  sorrow 
and  secret  discipline  of  a  whole  year  loomed  darkly 
behind  their  lustre. 

"Believe  me,  oh,  believe  me!"  she  seemed  to 
wish  to  say.  "It  was  not  I,  not  my  own  will.  Fate 
held  her  hand  upon  my  neck,  and  for  fear  of  being 
crushed  to  earth,  I  had  to  hold  myself  stiff.  Your 
feelings,  whatever  they  have  been,  were  as  noth- 
ing, ah,  nothing  to  mine!" 

The  tears  were  not  far  off,  but  she  was  happy, 
as  one  who  may  at  least  half  speak  out  the  burden 
laid  so  crushingly  upon  him. 

"Have  I  been  a  good  mistress  to  you?"  she 
asked;  and,  amazed  at  their  own  emotion,  they 
answered:  "Yes,  indeed,  ma'am,  that  you  have. 
And  take  our  thanks  for  all  you've  done."  And 
they  gave  her  their  sincere  and  hearty  blessing. 

At  last  only  the  child  was  left. 

She  knelt  down  before  the  boy,  w^ho  stood  in 
his  corner  with  wide-open,  frightened  eyes,  watch- 
ing all  that  went  on.  And  now  the  tears  were  still 
nearer  flowing.  She  held  both  his  hands  and  spoke 
to  him  in  rapid,  impetuous,  and  for  the  most  part 
incomprehensible  words. 

"I  have  not  made  your  life  happy,"  said  she; 
"but  I  could  not,  I  had  no  happiness  to  give.  It 
is  not  every  one  who  has  that,  as  one  day  you  may 
come  to  learn  for  yourself.  But  one  must  bear  up 


HIDDEN  FIRES  223 

all  the  same.  Have  I  at  least  been  anything  like  a 
good  mother  to  you,  you  who  have  no  mother? 
Can  you  give  me  thanks  for  the  year  that  has 
gone?  I  shall  not  fail,  I  shall  hold  out  as  I  have 
done  hitherto.  And  if — which  may  God  forbid — 
you  ever  come  to  see  into  my  heart,  you  will  know 
that  I  could  do  no  more,  and  will  pardon  what  was 
lacking." 

The  boy  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  In  the 
dark  and  silent  weaving  of  the  b®nd  between  them 
he  had  already  understood  enough  to  make  the 
tears  now  start  forth. 

"Mother  has  been  good,"  stammered  he  be- 
tween his  sobs,  as  he  pressed  shyly  to  her,  "mother 
has  been  good." 

"But  you  must  say  'thank  you,'  too.  I  will  say 
it  for  you;  we  will  speak  together." 

But  unwittingly  she  clasped  her  hands  as  she 
did  so,  and,  struggling  with  her  sobs,  spoke 
her  thanks  to  som_e  one  else  in  a  tone  that  fright- 
ened the  boy,  so  that  his  answering  words  be- 
came a  shriek.  She  had  to  soothe  him  to  rest  on 
her  bosom. 

When  she  arose  it  was  with  an  air  of  relief  and 
liberty.  "So  now  I  have  stood  my  test,  and  there 
it  lies  behind  me  with  all  the  other  shadows."  But 
she  went  out  quickly  without  looking  round  for 
any  one  whom  she  might  have  forgotten. 

Nils  was  ready  and  had  the  torch  alight.  Now 


224  PER  HALLSTROM  ^ 

he  held  it  up  to  her,  and  looking  earnestly  at  her, 
asked: 

"Have  you  taken  leave  of  all  of  them  in  the 
house?" 

The  color  that  the  air  had  brought  into  her 
cheeks,  after  all  her  recent  conflict  of  emotions, 
faded  away  as  swiftly  as  the  darkness  round  her, 
but  she  answered  calmly,  "Yes." 

"Of  Gabriel,  too?" 

She  trembled,  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
twitched  with  pain. 

"He  was  not  inside." 

"Then  go  and  look  for  him.  You  must  not  for- 
get any  one." 

"Think  what  you're  doing!  Don't  drive  me  to 
it!  Think  well  what  you're  doing!"  Her  voice  be- 
came strangely  deep.  Her  husband  was  amazed  to 
see  how  large  and  black  and  desperate-looking 
were  her  eyes,  as  he  stood  holding  the  light  up  to 
them.  The  flame  of  the  torch  was  caught  by  a 
puff  of  air,  the  darkness  itself  became  red  and 
low.  The  frost  sparkled  and  groaned  upon  the 
ground. 

"Nothing  must  be  hidden  and  forgotten  any 
longer,"  he  answered  firmly.  "We  must  be  free 
from  everything  when  we  come  before  God." 

He  could  not  give  way  in  this  matter.  He  had 
done  so  many  times  during  the  year,  when  he  had 
begun  to  touch  upon  the  subject,  but  had  checked 


HIDDEN  FIRES  225 

himself  because  every  time  she  had  pressed  her 
hand  to  her  heart,  as  if  something  had  pierced  it. 
He  had  thought  then :  It  is  on  my  account,  that  I 
could  go  against  her.  But  a  wrong  had  been  done 
to  the  stranger,  and  on  this  day  that  must  be  the 
all-important  thing. 

Ingert  stood  looking  at  him,  pondering  on  his 
words. 

"Nothing  must  be  hidden  or  forgotten,  you 
have  said.  You  know  best,  of  course." 

She  peered  into  his  face  to  see  if  his  purpose 
held,  but  besought  him  no  longer.  Rather,  there 
was  something  like  a  threat  in  her  look. 

But  as  he  stood  there  firm  and  motionless,  with 
no  intention  even  of  repeating  what  he  had  said, 
a  wild  flame  lit  up  the  darkness  of  her  eyes,  a 
strange  light  of  joy  and  pain  which  he  could  not 
comprehend.  He  did  not  recognize  her.  Her  soul 
was  no  longer  there.  Had  he  spoken,  she  would 
not  have  heard  him,  for  she  was  listening  to  some- 
thing far  away,  a  voice  that  ensnared  and  fettered 
her  with  its  deep,  mysterious  tones. 

"I  will  go,  then,"  said  she.  And  swiftly,  but  as 
though  borne  by  an  unseen  power  rather  than 
of  her  own  will,  she  passed  Into  the  house. 

VIII 

In  order  to  be  as  far  away  as  possible,  Gabriel 
had  withdrawn  to  the  men's  sleeping-room,  and 


226  PER  HALLSTROxM 

he  was  alone.  A  tiny  light  was  burning,  but  the 
dark  night  came  in  through  the  window-panes.  It 
was  cold  and  cheerless. 

He  sat  on  his  bed  and  thought  of  all  this  and 
of  how  his  year  had  passed,  and  he  shivered.  He 
longed  for  them  to  be  ready  so  that  he  could  go 
to  the  kitchen  hearth  again.  There,  perhaps,  he 
might  get  his  dreams  back  and  be  almost  happy 
as  Christmas  morning  came  on.  Then  he  heard 
her  steps  and  recognized  them. 

He  knew  at  once  that  the  footsteps  were  for 
him,  and  he  thought:  Now  she  comes  to  speak  to 
me :  they  have  made  her  do  it.  She  can  only  have 
one  thing  to  say — that  I  must  go,  that  I  cannot 
stay  here.  And  I  have  been  expecting  it  for  a  whole 
year.  Of  course  I  must  obey  her,  but  what  shall  I 
then  have  left  in  all  the  world? 

He  sat  motionless,  straining  his  eyes  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  door,  half  fearful,  half  triumphant. 
Now  at  last  he  would  receive  the  wages  he 
had  earned,  although  so  poor  a  wage  that  he 
must  needs  smile  at  it.  But  now  at  least  he 
would  exist  for  her.  Man  to  woman  he  would 
face  her  at  last,  before  memory  alone  was  left 
him. 

Her  hand  was  on  the  latch.  The  door  opened 
and  closed,  but  Gabriel  did  not  stir. 

She  must  drive  me  away,  thought  he.  Not  one 
of  her  words  will  I  waste.  They  are  too  precious 


HIDDEN  FIRES  227 

for  that,  since  they  are  all  that  I  shall  have.  And 
I  have  waited  long  enough  for  them. 

She  went  straight  up  to  him.  Her  steps  were 
very  swift,  she  almost  ran.  Her  face  gleamed  pale 
in  the  dusk,  but  there  was  something  else  In  her 
look,  he  knew  not  what. 

When  she  was  close  beside  him,  she  opened  her 
mouth  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came.  She  had  grown 
so  used  to  forcing  back  the  words  in  his  presence 
that  now  her  lips  refused  to  do  her  service.  Her 
hands  felt  at  her  breast,  were  checked  as  usual, 
trembled,  and  were  still.  The  thousand  darts  that 
she  had  suffered  In  silence  now  made  their  stings 
felt  anew.  Her  face  contracted,  and  all  was  pre- 
pared for  a  struggle. 

Then  she  let  the  Inevitable  come. 

Her  hands  flew  up  to  her  heart  and  gripped  at 
it  as  though  they  wished  to  drive  in  still  deeper 
all  the  pain  she  felt,  they  clutched  convulsively, 
as  if  to  arrest  a  stream  of  blood.  It  was  infinite 
torture  to  her  not  to  be  able  to  speak. 

Now  the  tightened  lips  moved,  and  then  it  came. 

But  still  no  words,  hardly  a  human  sound.  She 
burst  out  Into  a  wild  cry  of  relief,  a  tempest  of 
ecstasy  that  at  last  the  silence  was  broken,  but  at 
the  same  time  there  was  a  note  of  anguish  at 
something  new,  something  mightier  than  all  the 
rest.  And  she  tottered  and  sank  to  the  floor. 

But  before  she  reached  It  Gabriel  had  risen  and 


228  PER  HALLSTROM 

thrown  his  arms  around  her.  He  remained  stand- 
ing, though  his  burden  grew  very  heavy. 

Her  head  was  close  to  his,  her  hands  stroked 
his  face  with  trembling  and  convulsive  movements, 
her  panting  breath  caressed  his  lips.  She  prayed 
him  forgiveness  for  all,  she  mourned  over  their 
common  sorrow,  smiled  at  their  present  joy,  made 
confession  of  a  whole  year  of  pain  and  love  at 
which  her  heart  had  bled. 

She  had  no  words  to  do  it  with,  only  her  hands, 
which  she  still  had  the  power  to  move.  In  the  end — 
for  all  passed  so  quickly — she  had  but  her  soul, 
and  she  breathed  it  out  In  a  strange,  long-drawn 
sigh  close  to  his  mouth.  Then  she  grew  quite  still. 

Gabriel  had  kissed  and  kissed  her  In  a  transport 
of  exultation  and  tears.  He  felt  himself  in  the 
presence  of  an  Ineffable  joy,  and  all  the  long  way 
to  it,  as  well  as  every  other  hard  and  painful  thing, 
was  forgotten  In  the  glory  that  was  about  them. 
But  he  saw  at  once  what  had  happened,  stood  up- 
right, and  listened  in  silence. 

It  could  not  be  otherwise,  the  thread  could  be 
drawn  no  finer.  And  so  must  they  two  meet.  He 
did  not  even  know  what  he  felt,  but  only  that  it 
was  so.  But  he  could  not  let  her  go,  now  that  at 
last  he  bore  the  sum  of  his  desires  in  his  arms,  and 
he  stood  gently  rocking  her  while  his  gaze  passed 
out  beyond  her  shoulder  towards  the  darkness  and 
the  frosty  stars  of  night. 


HIDDEN  FIRES  229 

IX 

Having  grown  tired  of  waiting,  Nils  had  come 
to  fetch  his  wife. 

By  then  the  stranger  was  sitting  on  the  bed, 
so  as  to  have  one  hand  free  to  caress  her.  He 
rocked  her  to  and  fro  like  a  child,  and  met  the 
husband's  eyes  with  the  look  he  was  accustomed 
to  wear  in  the  evenings  by  the  fire. 

To  the  mute  amazement  of  his  master  he  paid 
no  heed,  but  only  stroked  Ingert's  hair  away  from 
her  forehead  and  showed,  as  he  fondled  it,  how 
white  and  changed  her  face  had  become, 

"She  is  dead,"  he  said  at  length.  And  at  Nils's 
terrified  and  expressionless  repetition  of  the  word: 
"She  is  dead,  as  you  see.  She  came  to  me  In  the 
end." 

And  he  rocked  her  and  pressed  her  to  him  as 
before,  without  caring  in  the  least  who  it  was  that 
saw  him. 

As  the  husband  stood  dumbfounded,  incapa- 
ble of  thought,  he  went  on,  still  rocking  her  to 
and  fro : 

"I  loved  her,  you  know,  long  since.  That  was 
why  I  came  here.  I  hoped  for  nothing,  and  I  got 
nothing,  not  even  a  word.  I  only  wanted  to  be  near 
her,  and  that  wish  was  granted.  Her  life  she  could 
not  give  me,  so  she  came  to  me  in  death.  She  is 
mine  now." 

Still  Nils  understood   nothing.   He   could  not 


230  PER  HALLSTROM 

even  believe  that  she  was  really  dead.  The  whole 
thing  was  so  incomprehensible. 

"What  have  you  done  to  her?"  he  asked,  step- 
ping threateningly  forward.  "Let  her  go !  Give 
her  to  me!" 

But  Gabriel  merely  sat  rocking  his  burden,  and 
turned  upon  the  other  a  strangely  calm  gaze  that 
cooled  his  anger. 

"What  should  I  have  done  to  her?  Wasn't  It 
you  who  sent  her  here?  You  have  given  her  to 
me,  and  now  she  is  mine;  no  one  can  take  her  back 
again.  She  has  kept  silent  so  as  not  to  break  her 
marriage  vow,  I  see  it  at  last.  But  I  never  knew 
before  what  it  cost  her.  Her  silence  tightened 
round  her  heart,  for  it  was  mine  long  ago  and 
yearned  towards  me.  At  last  the  bonds  were 
broken,  but  they  had  been  drawn  too  close.  The 
heart  could  not  bear  its  freedom,  everything  had 
grown  too  mean  for  it.  So  it  broke  in  that  same 
moment:  and  what  else  could  it  have  done?  She  is 
happy  now;  we  are  both  happy.   I  haven't  shed 


a  tear." 


At  last  Nils  began  to  understand.  He  called  to 
mind  her  last  looks  and  words,  and  struggled  with 
his  tears.  He  felt  himself  shut  away  from  her  by 
the  stranger's  gaze,  and  that  hurt  him.  But  his  own 
sorrow,  however  deep  and  great  he  felt  it,  was  too 
small  to  venture  forth  here. 

"It  is  you  that  have  killed  her,"  he  moaned. 


HIDDEN  FIRES  231 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  but  what  matter  now? 
Look  at  her !"  And  Gabriel  once  more  stroked  her 
hair  and  pointed  out  that  she  seemed  to  smile. 
"Don't  you  see  that  it's  with  joy?  More  than  joy, 
Fate  itself?" 

Nils  saw,  and  he  shivered,  still  more  abstracted 
than  before  in  his  own  blind  grief. 

"If  it  be  as  you  say,"  said  he;  "if  it  be  as  you 
say  .  .  .  ." 

But  he  did  not  doubt,  nor  yet  did  he  know  what 
was  to  follow  in  his  thoughts. 

The  stranger  calmly  linked  his  words  on  to  his 
master's. 

"Then  this  is  also  mine,  this  that  Is  left  of  her. 
You  won't  refuse  her  that?"  And  as  the  husband 
blanched  at  the  strangeness  of  his  request,  he 
added: 

"I  will  take  her  to  the  place  where  she  was 
born  and  bred.  It  is  there  she  should  rest  easiest. 
I  have  a  farm  there,  and  had  built  a  new  one,  but 
I  left  it  empty  when  word  came  that  she  would 
never  live  in  it.  And  now  she  shall  lie  there  on  her 
bier.  Every  night  I  have  sat  and  gone  on  building 
while  I  listened  to  her  footsteps,  but  of  this  I  never 
dreamed.  But  now  the  house  will  suit  her  as  it  is. 
Bare,  clean  boards.  It  is  ready,  and  she  must  come 
home." 

And  the  husband  gave  his  promise,  constrained 
by  the  other's  look  and  by  his  own  feeling  of  insig- 


232  PER  HALLSTRO.M 

nificance  before  this  great,  half-understood,  un- 
fathomable thing.  When  Gabriel  rose  and  released 
his  precious  and  heavy  burden,  it  was  to  make 
ready  for  her  last  journey. 

The  torches  had  burnt  down  unobserved  in  all 
this  confusion  and  terror.  The  stars,  too,  were 
extinguished.  The  light  of  Christmas  Day  broke 
more  solemn  and  cold  in  its  gray  paleness  than 
ever  in  years  gone  by.  Over  whitened  fields  and 
frozen  water-courses  the  procession  slowly  took 
its  way  towards  the  -spot  within  the  mountains 
where  the  sleigh-bells  would  echo  among  the  rocks, 
as  if  there  amid  the  reserve  and  constraint,  the 
infinite  strength  and  secrecy,  a  place  was  being 
made  ready  for  something  in  Ingert's  nature  and 
fate. 


THE  WATER-FINDER 

[KALLORNA] 

FROM  DE  FYRA  ELEMENTERNA 

1906 


T^he  Water-Finder 

IT  SEEMS  to  me  that  Spring  has  never  been 
so  near  my  heart  and  eye  as  that  time.  More- 
over, I  was  a  boy  then,  and  it  was  my  first  journey 
north. 

During  the  last  few  weeks  of  school  the  year's 
awakening  had,  as  it  were,  moved  past  me  in  the 
distance,  borne  upon  brightening  nights  with  flocks 
of  migrating  birds  high  up  in  the  fading  blue.  The 
roar  of  the  river  sounded  with  a  note  ever  more 
alluring,  the  chestnut  buds  flamed  whiter  and 
whiter  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  great  tepid  drops 
of  rain  brought  disquiet  where  they  fell. 

If  I  walked  outside  the  town,  the  wealth  of 
Nature  was  already  too  abundantly  displayed 
about  me.  The  miracle  Is  over,  it  seemed  to  say: 
you  have  come  too  late  to  see  It.  A  whole  long 
year  and  the  dark  winter's  snow  are  between  us 
ere  you  can  try  to  capture  me  again,  and  even  then 
you  will  succeed  no  better. 

In  the  height  of  June  I  sat  in  the  train  and  was 
borne  towards  the  forests.  There  the  foam-flecked 
river,  rushing  wide,  showed  the  way  to  the  un- 
known, and  in  wide  blue  heights,  in  fresh  mountain 
air,  it  was  about  me,  great  and  wonderful  and 
dreamy.    Suddenly  I  started  In  amazement,    and 

ass  ' 


236  PER  HALLSTROM 

looked  with  eyes  wide  open  at  the  nearest  objects. 
I  had  managed  to  catch  up  the  flying  spring. 

Thickets  of  birch  and  aspen  stretched,  light  as 
clouds,  along  the  tender  green  of  the  dales,  under 
the  still  frozen  twilight  of  the  pine-woods,  and 
before  the  river's  shimmering  blue.  They  seemed 
to  have  nothing  material  about  them  save  their 
power  to  glitter  and  shine  in  the  low  sunlight  which 
held  them  suspended  on  its  beams,  and  to  send 
out  into  the  cool  evening  air  their  strong  yet  deli- 
cate perfume.  Beneath  them,  among  the  brown 
leaves  of  last  year,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  flowers 
which  I  could  not  yet  pluck  and  own.  It  was  as 
though  the  spirit  of  one  not  long  dead  and  deeply 
mourned  had  appeared  again  amid  the  circle  of 
his  loved  ones,  where  already  his  memory  had 
begun  to  be  illuminated  and  transformed  by  the 
poetry  of  the  irrevocable,  and  had  stood  there 
bright  and  smiling,  gently  whispering:  "See,  here 
am  I !  This  is  my  self,  which  I  could  never  give  to 
you  entirely.  Look  on  me,  but  touch  me  not  I" 

The  sun  went  down,  but  no  darkness  came  with 
the  night.  I  was  borne  along  past  silent  lakes,  on 
whose  steep  banks  the  leafy  tree-tops  raised  their 
heads  in  wreath  upon  wreath  of  foliage;  the  same 
scent  as  before  came  from  them,  but  there  was 
no  glitter  now.  Only  a  palely  shining  color  in  a 
thousand  shades,  and  one  or  two  stars  low  down, 
burning  and  trembling  upon  trembling  twigs.  No 


THE  WATER-FINDER  237 

sound  but  the  noise  of  the  roUing  train  and  the 
echo  that  was  lost  behind  us,  and  now  and  then 
a  thrush  that  broke  off  startled  in  the  midst  of  a 
trill. 

One  could  not  think  that  all  this  was  real;  the 
earth  lay  stretched  and  bound  in  a  rapt  prophetic 
transport,  listening  to  herself  and  staring  up  into 
the  light-blue  spaces  of  heaven.  Never  again,  it 
seemed,  could  she  awake  from  her  enchantment, 
and  it  was  hopeless,  though  tempting,  to  guess  at 
her  riddles  and  secrets. 

The  journey  came  to  an  end,  and  lulled  by  the 
sound  of  some  invisible  waterfall — a  gentle  voice, 
I  knew  not  whence,  from  all  the  strange,  cool 
world  about  me  in  its  fresh  gray  dew — I  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke,  the  impressions  of  the  night 
vanished  as  I  made  acquaintance  with  the  fall  and 
saw  from  what  a  wild  and  careless  sport  its  voice 
arose.  The  spring  which  I  had  seized  was  about 
me  even  in  full  daylight,  and  there  was  also  a  new 
and  strange  country  to  explore. 

It  was  a  lovely  district  with  high  forest-clad 
hills,  so  gently  sloping  that  they  gave  an  air  of 
combined  grandeur  and  mildness,  especially  now, 
when  the  dark  green  foliage  of  the  pine  trees  was 
giving  place  in  every  hollow  to  the  shining,  tender 
leaves  of  June,  The  river  flowed  slowly,  ere  it  was 
caught  in  the  giddy  pace  of  the  fall,  and  spread  out 
into  a  number  of  wide  lakes,  gliding  into  one  an- 


238  PER  HALLSTROM 

other  between  points  and  islets.  Three  or  four 
sheets  of  water,  one  above  the  other,  could  be 
seen  from  any  piece  of  rising  ground.  The  forest 
was  impenetrable  and  wild,  full  of  stones  and  bogs 
and  fallen  trunks;  on  the  plains  stretched  for  the 
most  part  desolate  marshes,  where  goats  browsed 
among  swaying  tussocks  and  black  stunted  trees. 
It  was  only  along  the  water  that  the  beauty  began, 
or  else  when  the  whole  was  viewed  in  a  single 
prospect,  softened  and  shining  in  the  sunlight  that 
bathed  it. 

One  evening  I  was  present  at  a  scene  which 
sums  up  for  me  all  my  memories  and  impressions 
from  that  time. 

There  was  a  small  farm  on  the  slope  down 
towards  the  river,  built  the  previous  autumn  by  a 
young  couple  who  had  moved  into  the  district. 
It  was  so  new  that  the  house  was  not  yet  painted, 
and  the  timber  had  hardly  been  bleached  by  the 
sunshine.  The  sheds  for  the  few  cattle  were  not 
yet  ready,  there  were  neither  paths  nor  fences; 
the  whole  farm  lay  cheerfully  and  as  if  in  sport 
broadcast  among  the  tender  green.  There  was  no 
well,  either,  and  that  was  just  the  point  now  under 
discussion. 

To  choose  the  place  for  a  well  is  not  a  task  for 
every  man,  for  intelligence  and  strength  of  arm 
are  of  little  use  unless  one  can  also  find  the  right 
place  where  the  vein  of  water  comes  nearest  to 


THE  WATER-FINDER  239 

the  earth's  surface  and  of  itself,  as  it  were,  seeks 
the  light  of  day.  A  special  art  of  water-divining 
has  been  developed,  though  indeed  "art"  is  hardly 
the  right  word,  for  nothing  in  it  can  be  learned. 
The  only  implement,  the  dowsing-rod,  is  there  for 
all,  but  not  every  hand  can  make  it  show  its  power. 
(That  is  a  gift  that  is  supposed  to  run  through  cer- 
tain families  only,  and  every  district  has  its  own 
trusted  diviner. 

In  this  case  it  was  a  peasant  named  Grels  Olofs- 
son  of  By,  and  he  was  noteworthy  in  more  ways 
than  this.  He  had  also  the  gift  of  curing  many 
kinds    of   diseases    and   bodily    injuries;    he   was 


"wise." 


This  property  is,  as  a  rule,  bound  up  with  primi- 
tive superstition  and  traditions  from  heathen 
times:  the  means  employed  are  often  absurdly 
crude,  often  also  deeply  poetic,  and  no  doubt  have 
their  roots  for  the  most  part  in  old  sacrificial 
customs. 

With  Grels  it  was  not  so.  Superstition  played 
no  part  in  his  methods.  Certainly  there  lay  beneath 
them  a  mysticism  hardly  suspected  by  himself,  but 
the  only  expression  it  took  was  an  intuitive  glance 
into  the  patient's  being,  a  naively  contemplative 
imagination  which,  without  anatomical  knowledge, 
seemed  to  grasp  immediately  the  coherence  and 
secret  life  of  the  body.  Imagination  was,  perhaps, 
the  whole  secret,  for  who  knows  how  deep  lie  the 


240  PER  HALLSTROM 

roots  of  this  most  mysterious  of  human  faculties, 
and  how  much  It  can  achieve?  It  is  seen  in  aJl 
created  things,  It  Is  perhaps  the  greatest  posltlv^e 
force  In  the  world.  In  poem  and  legend  It  roves  at 
will,  but  It  is  also  found  silent  and  hidden  In  the 
workshops  of  Nature.  In  man  it  Is  perhaps  might- 
iest where  It  finds  least  expression,  and  dwells 
nearest  to  that  which  has  neither  voice  nor  con- 
sciousness. So  It  was  in  this  peasant,  who  had  never 
withdrawn  himself  from  the  realities  of  life. 

He  rarely  failed,  and  had  never  made  any  seri- 
ous blunder,  so  that  professional  physicians  re- 
ceived him  not  only  with  tolerance  but  with  respect. 

He  was  a  solid,  cautious,  and  determined  man, 
who  thought  rapidly  but  spoke  little  and  slowly,  in 
all  respects  the  most  notable  and  influential  person 
in  the  parish.  He  was  rich,  too,  one  might  say,  for 
he  still  owned  his  forest,  but  seemed  never  to  have 
been  tempted  to  make  money  out  of  It,  and  lived 
his  life  as  simply  and  thriftily  as  the  poorest.  For 
his  services  he  would  receive  no  payment,  though 
they  often  took  up  his  busiest  hours;  he  seemed 
to  count  them  as  a  recreation,  and  It  was  with  a 
calm  and  deliberate  joy  that  he  performed  them. 
He  had  been  for  some  years  a  widower  and  had 
two  children  living,  a  son  and  a  daughter. 

I  had  not  seen  him  before,  and  I  regarded  him 
with  curiosity  as  I  waited  in  wonder  and  with  a 
certain  schoolboy  superiority  for  the  unknown  cere- 


THE  WATER-FINDER  241 

mony.  He  was  tall  and  still  slender,  though  he 
would  soon  be  an  old  man.  His  head  was  large  and 
massively  shaped,  the  eyes  clear  and  untroubled 
as  a  child's,  although  the  swift  decision  with  which 
their  glance  was  directed  did  not  lack  virility. 
Strong,  too,  was  the  mouth  which  the  slightly  griz- 
zled beard  left  entirely  exposed,  yet  no  hardness 
could  be  discerned  there,  but  rather  a  seriousness 
which  seemed  never  to  have  been  tempted  to 
laughter. 

He  sat  on  the  ground,  listening  in  silence  to  the 
farmer's  somewhat  unnecessary  story  of  how  he 
had  come  to  build  just  there,  and  of  where  he 
would  prefer  the  well  to  be  sunk.  Now  and  again 
he  looked  past  him  with  a  friendly  glance  at  the 
friendly  little  house,  half  lowered  his  eyelids,  and 
let  the  sun  shine  full  in  his  face  with  an  obvious 
sensation  of  well-being,  while  with  his  strong  labor- 
er's hand  he  stroked  the  tender  grass.  He  had  come 
there  over  the  lakes,  rowed  by  his  son  and  daugh- 
ter, and  had  still  upon  him  some  Impression  of  the 
journey,  which  may  have  been  new  for  that  year 
and  was  well-loved  and  familiar  from  of  old.  It 
must  have  been  strange  and  wonderful  enough  that 
quiet  evening.  Every  tree  on  the  slope  stood  out 
clearly  In  the  reflecting  surface,  every  shining  red 
farmstead  smiled  at  Its  image,  which  seemed  all 
the  more  cheerful  for  the  shadows  below.  All  was 
set  In  a  single  limpid  expanse,  a  world  of  air  and 


242  PER  HALLSTROM 

water,  both  alike  ethereal,  with  the  bright  and 
almost  immaterial  visions  of  the  spring  floating 
therein. 

He  was  resting  now,  delighting  In  every  breath 
he  took,  and  collecting  himself,  as  was  his  wont, 
ere  the  time  of  testing  came.  In  spite  of  his  alert 
appearance,  which  had  nothing  mysterious  about 
It,  he  gave  a  curious  impression  of  listening,  and 
reminded  one  of  those  legendary  figures  who  can 
hear  the  grass  grow,  and  for  whom  the  secret 
places  of  the  earth  lie  open.  Behind  him  was  his 
daughter,  picking  flowers. 

She  was  a  girl  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  and  the  whole 
of  her  round  little  face  was  fresh  and  red  as  a 
cherry,  though  the  spring  sun  had  already  tanned 
it  slightly.  The  kerchief  falling  down  over  her 
shoulders  exposed  her  nut-brown,  curly  hair;  nut- 
brown,  too,  were  her  eyes,  which  were  more  than 
commonly  wide  open,  had  short  lashes,  and  re- 
flected the  light.  Her  figure  was  supple  and  slen- 
der, as  they  are  often  found  to  be  in  wood- 
land districts;  in  her  violet-gray  woolen  dress 
she  resembled  one  of  the  downy  flowers  of  the 
season. 

Grels  stood  up  and  went  to  the  nearest  thicket 
to  cut  a  twig.  He  searched  long  and  carefully,  cau- 
tiously parting  the  catkins  on  the  boughs,  and 
when  he  had  made  his  choice,  the  sap  could  be 
seen   running  out  beneath    the    knife    under  the 


THE  WATER-FINDER  243 

smooth  bark.  He  cut  off  the  branch  in  such  a  way 
that  it  had  the  shape  of  a  Y,  tried  it  to  see  if  it 
suited  his  grip,  and  looked  about  him  to  judge  the 
ground.  He  seemed  to  find  it  promising  and  nodded 
to  his  son,  who,  in  unwilling  obedience  to  the  ges- 
ture, now  stepped  up  to  his  father. 

"Try  once  again,  Olof,"  said  Grels.  "You  ought 
to  be  old  enough  now.  Try  again !"  And  he  handed 
him  the  dowsing-rod.  The  young  man  took  it,  still 
against  his  will. 

"What's  the  use?"  he  asked,  but  since  his  fa- 
ther's eye  continued  to  admonish  him,  he  held  the 
twig  away  from  him  and  began  to  walk  in  a  slightly 
stooping  posture. 

He  was  a  tall  and  powerfully  built  youth  of 
eighteen,  brisk  and  active,  with  a  dark  line  of 
energy  above  the  eyes,  in  other  respects  like  his 
father,  except  that  his  mouth  was  larger  and  more 
mobile,  and  had  about  it  something  discontented, 
an  air  half  of  sullenness,  half  of  desire. 

He  walked  swiftly  and  impatiently  down  the 
slope,  and  seemed  displeased  to  feel  the  eyes  of 
all  upon  him. 

The  father  followed  him  with  his  look. 

"You're  not  stooping  low  enough,  Olof,"  said 
he.  "It's  just  as  it  was  before.  You'll  never  do  it 
that  way.  You're  thinking  of  something,  and  then 
no  power  can  come." 

Olof  stopped  short.  "You  know  what  I'm  think- 


244  PER  HALLSTROM 

ing  about,"  he  answered.  "I've  no  taste  for  this, 
and  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer." 

The  sister's  shrill  voice  called  eagerly: 

"Here,  Olof,  here!  Why  don't  you  come  this 
way,  boy?  You  can  find  it  without  any  dowsing- 
rod,  you  can  tell  by  the  flowers.  The  vein  must  go 
here,  where  they  are  freshest.   Can't  you  see?" 

But  he  took  no  notice  of  her  and  handed  back 
the  twig  so  as  to  be  freed  from  his  task. 

"All  this  is  not  for  me,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"You  knew  it  before,  and  it  will  always  be  so." 

Grels  bent  his  clear  and  sober  gaze  disapprov- 
ingly upon  him,  but  silently  took  the  rod,  and  with 
eyes  half-lowered  to  meet  the  light  began  his  tour 
of  inspection. 

He  held  his  hands  close  to  his  knees  and  walked 
very  slowly,  as  though  he  were  looking  for  some- 
thing in  the  thin  grass,  passing  up  the  slope  and 
turning  aside  to  follow  the  scarce  visible  depres- 
sions of  the  ground.  The  low  sunshine  enveloped 
his  curiously  groping  movements  and  almost  hid 
them  from  us,  the  gleaming  boughs  of  the  birch 
trees  shone  like  glass  in  the  thickets,  and  their 
half  open  leaves  were  shot  through  with  gold.  A 
gust  of  cool  freshness  and  perfume  was  wafted 
through  the  evening  air,  and  one  could  almost  see 
the  dew  already  falling  where  the  flowers  shone 
between  gleaming  stalks.  Silently  we  all  followed 
him  at  a  distance,  and  even  the  farmer's  young 


THE  WATER-FINDER  245 

wife,  heavy  with  the  child  she  bore  and  the  con- 
finement to  the  house  in  winter,  had  ventured  out 
and  smiled  a  melancholy,  tired,  yet  hopeful  smile 
upon  the  spring,  the  sunshine,  and  the  well  that 
was  to  be.  A  swift,  merry,  and  metallic  twitter 
passed  through  the  air — it  was  the  swallows  that 
had  just  arrived  and  gratefully  found  a  nesting- 
place  upon  the  new-built  house,  consecrating  it, 
as  it  were,  to  the  joys  and  vicissitudes  of  life. 

Slowly  the  dowsing-rod  turned,  as  though  by 
some  mysterious  power  of  its  own,  and  pointed 
towards  the  ground:  a  glad  cry  of  surprise  rose 
from  us  all.  But  Grels  went  on,  stooping  and 
groping  as  before,  magnified  by  the  light  into  some 
unknown,  mysterious,  yet  friendly  power. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  since  the  rod  was  swinging 
with  short  pendulous  beats  between  his  hands, 
which  with  their  swollen  veins  and  convulsive  grip 
seemed  hardly  able  to  hold  it  longer.  He  pushed 
It  into  the  ground  as  a  mark, — the  place  was 
found.  Then  he  rose,  obviously  exhausted,  and 
mopped  his  forehead.  There,  too,  the  veins  were 
swollen,  and  his  skin  was  red  under  its  tan. 

He  turned  to  the  farmer.  "No  need  to  dig  very 
deep  here,"  he  said,  "but  the  water  will  be  fresh 
and  sweet  all  the  same."  And  he  smiled  encour- 
agingly at  him  and  the  young  wife  and  their  home. 
"May  It  be  a  blessing  to  you,  and  may  there  be 
many  of  you  to  drink  long  of  it!" 


246  PER  HALLSTROM 

They  thanked  him  and  spoke  of  returning  his 
services,  but  he  put  their  thanks  aside.  He  wiped 
his  forehead  as  though  he  was  tired,  and  seemed 
to  be  debating  with  himself.  Then  in  a  firm  voice 
he  called  his  son  to  him. 

"Go  back  now,  both  of  you,"  said  he.  "I  will 
stay  here  to  see  that  the  work  is  properly  done." 

This  was  doubtless  his  custom  in  such  cases, 
for  the  girl  smiled  indulgently  as  at  some  familiar 
weakness.  "It's  a  pity  you  won't  come,  father," 
she  answered;  "It's  calmer  than  ever  now,  and  it 
will  be  so  lovely  on  the  water."  The  son  nodded 
obediently,  but  seemed  to  make  inward  objections 
to  such  a  waste  of  precious  time.  And  so  they  both 
went  down  to  the  boat. 

Grels  sat  on  the  ground  again  and  rested,  with 
his  brown  hand  caressing  the  grass  as  before,  con- 
tent to  remain  upon  the  spot  and  have  his  well- 
loved  task  to  himself.  He  now  first  caught  sight 
of  the  swallows,  and  with  his  clear  glance  fol- 
lowed the  motion  of  their  wings  as  they  flashed 
against  the  blue.  He  seemed  as  happy  as  a  man 
can  be. 

That  gave  me  courage  to  speak  to  him.  My 
imagination  had  been  roused  by  the  mystery  of  the 
scene.  It  had  never  before  occurred  to  me  to  won- 
der where  the  water  came  from  in  wells  and 
springs,  or  to  think  what  it  meant  for  our  human 
race.  The  hazel-twig  also  was  a  riddle  that  my 


THE  WATER-FINDER  247 

scanty  knowledge  of  magnetism  left  as  dark  as 
ever,  in  spite  of  the  boldest  speculations.  Now  I 
wished  to  know  as  much  as  he,  and  I  began  by 
hinting  at  my  hypothesis  and  the  knowledge  I  al- 
ready possessed. 

He  looked  at  me  and  gently  shook  his  head  at 
my  too  elaborate  wisdom. 

"It  needs  water,"  was  his  answer.  "Everything 
needs  water  to  live.  And  so  it  tries  to  get  down 
there  after  it,  when  it  can  no  longer  get  it  through 
the  root.  We  can  all  of  us  find  what  we  want,  if  we 
don't  scatter  ourselves  over  other  things.  If  I 
planted  it  deep  enough  in  the  ground,  that  little 
twig,  it  would  take  root  and  become  a  tree  again, 
for  such  power  it  has — a  fine,  strong  tree.  But 
this  well  will  do  more  than  that;  it  will  give  men 
their  daily  drink,  and  instead  of  a  tree  a  race  will 
branch  out  here." 

"But  where  does  the  vein  come  from?  Can  you 
find  one  anywhere  in  the  earth?" 

It  pleased  him  to  hear  my  questions.  He  seemed 
to  have  often  pondered  them  himself. 

"All  water  comes  from  the  clouds.  It  circulates 
during  the  ages  like  blood  in  a  man's  body.  Mostly 
the  rain  goes  straight  to  the  rivers  again,  or  stops 
in  the  turf  for  a  time  and  does  its  work  there,  and 
is  breathed  out  through  leaves  and  stalks.  But 
some  of  it  goes  deeper.  Here  under  the  ground" — 
and  he  patted  it  as  he  spoke — "there  are  lakes  and 


248  PER  HALLSTROM 

streams,  too.  You  can  see  it  best  when  you  dig: 
there  are  layers  of  clay  that  will  let  nothing 
through,  but  in  between  them  are  stones  and  gravel 
that  are  always  dripping  with  wet.  They  are  lakes 
that  the  sun  never  shines  on.  Nobody  sees  them, 
but  there  they  are,  and  they  have  their  work  to  do ; 
a  current  runs  through  them  all  the  time  and  keeps 
renewing  them.  Without  them  there  could  be  no 
life,  the  roots  go  down  into  them.  Not  even  in  the 
hardest  frost,  when  all  that  we  see  is  ice  and  snow, 
are  these  depths  frozen.  Sometimes  the  water  runs 
out  of  itself  into  the  daylight,  in  some  cleft  in  the 
woods,  and  then  becomes  a  stream  that  grows 
greater  and  greater  till  it  forms  a  river  and  fall. 
But  you  have  to  dig  for  it  as  well,  and  then  it  may 
almost  leap  out  to  meet  you,  if  there's  pressure  on 
it  from  the  hills.  That  water's  the  freshest  and 
clearest.  It  has  been  so  silent  and  shut  in  down 
there,  and  like  everything  else  it  is  glad  to  see 
the  light." 

Here  was  much  for  me  to  think  about,  much 
more  than  I  could  explain,  especially  that  about 
the  personal  life  that  was  in  some  way  connected 
with  our  view  of  Nature.  Nor  did  I  stop  at  that, 
but  everywhere  I  went  I  divined  and  almost  heard 
the  secret  course  of  the  water  beneath  the  visible 
earth.  The  spring  season  about  me  thus  became 
more  fresh  and  more  enchanting,  and  everything, 
even  the  deep,  wild  trills  of  the  myriad  thrushes 


THE  WATER-FINDER  249 

at  evening  seemed  to  speak  of  those  silent  and 
hidden  powers  that  bore  up  the  whole. 

I  saw  Grels  for  a  few  days  longer,  working  in 
silent  contentment  with  spade  and  crowbar,  wet 
through,  and  dripping  with  moisture  and  clay. 
When  he  stood  deep  down  in  the  earth  and  thought 
himself  alone,  he  would  hum  and  sing  to  himself 
for  joy.  After  all  was  finished,  he  went  away. 

Of  the  son  I  heard  that  the  relations  between 
him  and  his  father  were  somewhat  strained.  He 
was  not  content  with  his  station  and  work,  or  w^Ith 
the  strangely  quiet  and  suppressed  life  at  home. 
People  justified  him  to  a  certain  degree,  for  he 
was  a  very  intelligent,  active,  and  industrious 
youth.  He  wished  "to  be  something,"  to  see  and 
try  the  world,  and  he  thought  it  foolish  for  them 
neither  to  sell  their  woods  nor  themselves  to  make 
money  out  of  them.  Against  all  this  Grels  set  his 
calm  and  taciturn  authority,  so  that  it  hardly  ven- 
tured so  far  as  a  definite  proposal,  but  he  suffered 
from  it  none  the  less,  both  out  of  love  for  his  boy 
and  also  from  anxiety  as  to  what  might  happen 
after  his  own  death.  But  all  this  was  hearsay  to 
me,  for  I  met  none  of  the  family  again  that 
summer. 

Four  years  later  I  came  back  to  the  neighbor- 
hood. Much  had  happened  there,  people  had  died, 
and  others  had  come  to  the  spot,  but  on  the  whole 
there  was  little  change.  The  same  thrushes  sang 


250  PER  HALLSTROM 

the  same  songs,  eternally  new,  In  the  thickets;  the 
spring-tide  green  shone  just  as  light  and  golden  in 
the  evenings.  At  night  the  landscape  lay  just  as 
pale,  staring  into  the  distance  at  the  same  high 
heaven,  while  the  voice  of  the  fall  sounded  as 
inexplicable  as  ever  In  its  untamed  force. 

The  well  that  Grels  had  opened  now  displayed 
itself  like  all  the  others  with  its  sweep  sharply 
outlined  against  the  sky.  Around  it  life  had  blos- 
somed richly. 

The  red  cottage  glowed  cheerfully  with  the 
showiest  of  geraniums  and  balsams  behind  the 
window-panes;  in  front  lay  a  little  garden  with  all 
the  bushes  In  It  that  the  uncongenial  climate  would 
permit  to  thrive.  A  couple  of  flaxen-haired  chil- 
dren now  welcomed  with  amazement  the  swallows' 
return,  and  bent  their  heads  in  laughter  and  alarm 
at  the  sudden  flight  of  the  birds  right  over  them. 

Olof  Grelson  had  left  home  long  since.  He  had 
gone  out  as  a  laborer  Into  the  woods,  since  he  was 
given  no  help  to  anything  else.  But  with  no  other 
capital  than  his  clear  head  and  his  power  for  work, 
he  had  soon  found  means  of  doing  business.  He 
had  done  well  enough,  but  had  lived  a  hard  life 
and  himself  become  somewhat  hard.  He  was  said 
to  be  more  anxious  now  than  ever  to  get  his  ma- 
ternal Inheritance — a  wood-lot — Into  his  hands,  so 
that  he  could  act  on  a  larger  scale,  but  certain  tes- 
tamentary conditions  bound  him.  The  father  op- 


THE  WATER-FINDER  251 

posed  to  his  plans  his  usual  silent  and  superior 
resistance,  still  refusing  to  be  drawn  into  the  un- 
rest of  modern  life,  and  retaining  his  contempt  for 
money  and  what  it  could  achieve.  The  girl  took  his 
side  with  all  the  gay  determination  of  her  happy 
nature,  so  that  Olof  and  his  next  of  kin  did  not 
get  on  well  together.  Violent  scenes  had  even  oc- 
curred during  the  winter.  Grels  had  his  daughter 
with  him  still,  and  on  her  approaching  marriage, 
the  son-in-law,  a  man  after  his  own  heart,  was  to 
move  in  and  take  Olof's  place.  I  met  her  first  of  all. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  leaving  a  chilliness 
approaching  frost,  and  a  perfectly  clear,  greenish 
sky,  such  as  is  often  to  be  seen  when  dew  falls 
heavily.  I  was  walking  among  cultivated  lands 
through  a  field  of  barley,  and  saw  the  dewdrops 
lying  so  thick  upon  the  young  stalks  that  they  be- 
came all  gray  and  shone  like  silver.  A  great  yellow 
moon  burst  over  the  edge  of  the  aspen  wood,  whose 
still  tender  foliage  had  hardly  yet  begun  its  eternal 
trembling.  The  sound  of  the  water  and  the 
thrushes'  song  penetrated  here  as  everywhere,  but 
so  strangely  remote  were  they,  so  closely  inter- 
woven with  each  other  and  with  the  crispness  of 
the  air,  that  they  seemed  to  be  part  of  the  past  or 
a  dream  of  the  future,  rather  than  the  present 
reality. 

From  the  opposite  side  of  the  field  I  saw  a  girl 
coming. 


252  PER  HALLSTROM 

I  cannot  tell  why  It  struck  me  that  she  was  going 
to  meet  her  sweetheart,  though  Indeed  that  was 
easy  to  guess.  What  was  stranger  was  a  feeling  of 
sadness  that  was  also  aroused,  a  slightly  shudder- 
ing suspicion  of  the  corruption  of  all  things,  such 
as  may  lie  close  at  hand  before  the  freshest  and 
most  spring-like  sights  In  life.  Perhaps  it  was  due 
chiefly  to  the  cold  and  the  twinkling  white  torch 
of  the  evening  star  in  the  paleness,  and  the  sounds 
that  filled  the  air.  Perhaps,  too,  there  was  a  touch 
of  envy  In  It.  She  drew  nearer,  and  I  recognized 
her  by  the  cherry  redness  of  her  round  soft  face 
and  by  the  way  in  which  she  bore  some  flowers  in 
her  hand — carefully,  as  if  she  held  a  prayer-book 
there,  too,  following  the  custom  of  her  childhood 
on  a  Sunday.  She  had  grown  a  little  taller  but  was 
otherwise  hardly  changed  since  I  last  saw  her;  it 
was  the  same  elastic  yet  slightly  rigid  figure,  ac- 
customed to  subduing  the  expressions  of  the  youth- 
ful joy  she  felt  in  merely  being  alive.  But  her  hazel 
eyes  shone  wide  under  the  brightness  of  the  moon, 
and  even  in  my  presence  her  mouth  could  not  con- 
ceal Its  smile  of  radiant  happiness.  Beyond  all 
doubt  it  was  her  sweetheart  she  was  going  to  meet. 

As  I  passed  by,  I  saw  that  her  feet  and  skirts 
were  dripping  with  dew,  and  her  hands  and  arms 
bore  traces  of  flower-picking  in  the  damp  leaves 
adhering  to  them.  A  few  water-drops,  shaken  down 
from  the  bushes,  still  remained  glistening  on  her 


THE  WATER-FINDER  253 

fresh  young  face  and  hair.  No  prettier  image  of 
the  spring  and  youthful  joy  could  be  imagined,  as 
she  walked  with  the  gray  dew  running  down  into 
her  tracks. 

-<  I  stood  looking  after  her,  but  though  she  prob- 
ably felt  my  gaze,  nothing  in  her  careless  carriage 
was  altered.  Then,  as  I  anticipated,  a  man  ap- 
peared from  among  the  bushes,  no  doubt  the 
expected  lover.  Her  steps  became  more  rapid,  and 
she  ran  to  meet  him  on  the  slope,  as  unconcernedly 
as  though  the  whole  world  might  see  her  if  it 
would,  and  continued  her  walk  close  to  his  side. 

They  were  to  marry  very  soon,  and  she  and  her 
father  were  often  staying  here  with  relatives  near 
the  railway-station,  on  various  errands  connected 
with  the  wedding. 

Next  day  Olof,  too,  came  there  for  a  meeting 
on  some  business  matter,  along  with  two  rather 
unpleasant-looking  men  of  the  small  speculator 
type,  half  boastful  in  their  sly  confidence,  half  shy 
in  the  contrast  between  their  workingmen's  limbs 
and  their  gentlemen's  attire.  Olof  himself  was 
majestic,  tall,  and  manly,  but  the  lines  of  energy 
around  his  eyes  were  darker  and  his  mouth  harder 
and  more  discontented  than  before. 

They  established  themselves  at  the  inn,  where 
there  was  much  drinking,  blustering,  and  talking. 
The  two  strangers  eagerly  took  part  in  the  family 
dispute,  and  threw  such  light  upon  it  as  was  pos- 


254  PER  HALLSTROM 

sible  from  their  ideas  of  human  nature  and  its 
motives.  That  boded  no  good,  for  Olof  had  made 
an  appointment  with  the  future  brother-in-law 
there,  so  that  all  might  be  made  clear  between 
them.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  arrived,  and  as  he 
indignantly  refused  to  form  one  of  such  a  com- 
pany, Olof,  already  inflamed  with  spirits  and  talk- 
ing, went  outside  with  him  a  few  yards  to  discuss 
matters.  The  other  was  an  irreproachable  but  vio- 
lent man,  who  had  taken  the  family  discords  very 
hardly,  with  all  the  charges  and  counter-charges 
that  had  been  made. 

The  subject  of  conversation  was  no  doubt  Olof's 
desire  to  sell  the  timber,  or  part  of  it.  He  wished 
to  engage  his  brother-in-law  on  his  side,  to  help 
him  in  influencing  his  father.  How  it  happened  no 
one  knew,  but  a  violent  quarrel  arose,  and  in  his 
hardly  responsible  state  of  semi-intoxication  Olof 
Grelson  plunged  his  knife  into  his  adversary. 

The  news  spread  quickly,  and  the  place  was  full 
of  people  when  I  reached  it.  They  had  not  thought 
of  taking  the  injured  man  away,  but  had  only  borne 
him  down  to  the  stream  close  by. 

His  true-love  was  there  amongst  the  first,  and 
had  probably  helped  to  carry  him.  She  knelt  by  the 
water  with  his  head  held  close  to  her,  as  with 
mechanically  swift,  unconscious  movements  she 
bathed  his  temples  and  forehead  with  her  hand- 
kerchief. It  was  hard  to  recognize  her  from  the 


THE   WATER-FINDER  255 

evening  before :  her  cheeks  were  paler  than  any 
one's,  and  the  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  her  sweet- 
heart's had  almost  the  same  look  as  his.  That  look 
was  strange  enough,  the  orbs  dilated  as  though 
they  had  wished  to  leave  their  seat  in  his  brain 
and  grasp  more  than  can  be  seen  by  mortal  eye, 
rigid  and  as  it  were  frozen  beneath  his  vision  in 
a  clarity  that  might  at  any  moment  be  broken  In 
pieces  like  Ice.  But  yet  It  was  calm,  and  the  expres- 
sion about  his  mouth  was  very  peaceful,  almost 
happy,  as  Is  said  to  be  commonly  the  case  In  bleed- 
ing. There  was  nothing  dreadful  in  the  sight  of 
him;  though  the  blow  had  come  so  suddenly  and 
unexpectedly,  It  seemed  to  have  come  quite  nat- 
urally, and  to  have  changed  nothing  in  his  manly 
strength. 

In  her,  again,  the  look  came  up  against  some- 
thing Impenetrable  and  hostile;  her  Immeasurable 
pain,  was  thrown  back  upon  a  torn  and  suffering 
point  within  her,  and  winged  its  way  out  again 
towards  hope.  All  her  being  trembled,  like  a  string 
under  a  violent  grasp,  between  memory  and  the 
reality.  She  could  not  reconcile  them  with  one  an- 
other, or  feel  that  the  same  self  still  existed  In  a 
world  so  rapidly  transformed. 

The  emotion  which  In  her  was  but  Internal  and 
which  sank  down  to  rest  In  the  figure  lying  prone 
before  her,  broke  out  in  gestures,  words,  and  tears 
in  the  men  and  women  at  his  feet.    Arms  and  hands 


256  PER  HALLSTROM 

were  in  violent  motion,  proposals  and  advice  met 
one  another,  and  with  the  confused  sounds  the 
murmur  of  the  stream  and,  far  away,  the  roar  of 
the  water-fall  were  mingled  in  contrasting  coolness. 

Olof  stood  apart  on  a  little  foot-bridge  lower 
down,  darkly  outlined  against  the  evening  sky, 
strange  and  unfamiliar  to  look  at,  as  error  and 
crime  themselves  are.  He  stared  down  into  the 
water  where  a  red  streak  of  blood  from  the  wound 
spread  into  a  bubble  and  floated  on  beneath  his  feet 
into  the  darkness.  His  heat  had  left  him  :  he  seemed 
cold  and  shook  his  shoulders  now  and  then,  turn- 
ing away  from  the  reflection  of  his  pale  face  In 
the  stream  but  being  drawn  to  it  again.  In  all  this 
scene  of  terror  and  amazement,  it  was  he  who  un- 
derstood least  and  seemed  most  to  be  pitied. 

Grels,  whom  some  one  had  run  to  fetch,  was 
seen  approaching  in  the  distance  at  his  usual  steady 
pace. 

His  son  saw  him  coming  and  turned  away  as 
shyly  and  awkwardly  as  a  guilty  child.  He  went 
past  us  in  a  curve,  following  the  course  of  the 
stream,  and  could  be  seen  from  time  to  time  be- 
tween the  stone-gray  alder  trunks.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  two  men  from  the  inn,  who  had  pre- 
viously stood  apart,  not  knowing  what  to  do.  Their 
flight  was  absently  watched  but  soon  forgotten. 
Hope  was  aroused  in  all  when  the  "doctor"  was 
seen  coming,  and  they  had  no  thoughts  for  other 


THE  WATER-FINDER  257 

things.  Even  the  girl's  look  brightened.  Only  the 
injured  man  lay  unmoved. 

Grels  stooped  down  and  made  his  examination, 
his  strong  and  practised  hands  moving  carefully 
over  the  uncovered  body,  his  eyes  gazing  calmly 
and  clearly  into  those  of  the  wounded  man  but 
avoiding  those  of  his  daughter.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  designedly  kept  all  thought  at  a  distance, 
so  that  from  his  usual  intuition  he  might  gain  full 
certainty.  He  raised  his  hand  in  token  of  silence, 
and  listened  and  pondered.  The  murmur  of  the 
water  close  by  and  in  the  distance  rose  up  louder 
amongst  us. 

It  was  not  hard  to  anticipate  his  verdict,  for 
now  it  was  a  dying  man's  last  rattle  that  broke  out. 

The  girl  stretched  out  her  hand  and  seized  her 
father's.  She  had  not  understood  or  noticed  what 
had  just  taken  place.  An  anguished  cry  of  hope 
seemed  to  lurk  in  her  shining  brown  eyes,  a  spark 
of  light,  a  flood  of  glad  tears  longing  to  burst 
forth.  She  forced  Grels's  eyes  to  meet  hers  and 
confirm  her  hopes.  His  look  was  very  deep  and 
still,  wonderfully  and  awfully  still. 

"Father!"  she  cried,  and  at  that  moment  she 
understood.  Her  voice  was  hushed,  and  the  gleam 
faded  from  her  eyes;  she  let  his  hand  fall  and 
thought  only  of  her  dying  lover.  She  cherished 
every  movement  he  could  yet  make,  every  sign  he 
might  perhaps  give  that  he  knew  her  to  be  there. 


258  PER  HALLSTROM 

She  tried  to  keep  pace  with  that  panting  struggle 
of  his  that  seemed  eternal,  and  tenderly  to  enfold 
with  all  her  thoughts  each  breath  as  it  rose  into 
the  void. 

Grels  stood  up,  and  half  turning  from  his  own 
trouble,  signed  to  all  that  she  whom  it  concerned 
most  nearly  should  be  left  in  peace  with  her  own. 
In  this  there  was  at  once  something  of  reverence, 
of  submission  to  the  law  of  life  that  casts  upon 
each  individual  his  own  incommunicable  burden  of 
suffering,  and  also  some  contempt  for  words, 
however  friendly  and  familiar,  before  the  crush- 
ing weight  of  facts. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  he  asked,  in  order  to 
divert  attention  from  the  scene,  though  otherwise 
it  was  a  question  of  minor  importance  for  the  mo- 
ment. "Who   ....?" 

It  was  clear  that  only  half  had  been  told  him, 
and  that  he  suspected  nothing.  None  could  bring 
himself  to  answer,  but  half  unconsciously  all  turned 
their  gaze  towards  the  spot  where  the  doer  of  the 
deed  had  last  been  visible. 

Grels  followed  the  direction  of  their  eyes,  and 
he,  too,  looked  up  along  the  dark  curve  of  the 
stream.  The  obscurity  took  shape  before  his  gaze, 
as  when  one  stares  upon  a  maze  of  lines  and 
blotches,  and  imagination  gives  them  form.  A 
group  of  three  men  could  be  discerned  in  the  wood, 
engaged  in  a  kind  of  struggle.  One  of  them  pushed 


THE  WATER-FINDER  259 

away  the  others,  who  were  trying  to  stop  him  and 
still  shouted  eager  counsel  after  him.  Olof  came 
slowly  down  towards  his  father  and  drew  near. 

"They  wanted  me  to  fly,"  he  said,  "but  what 
good  would  that  do?  I  went  away  because  of  you, 
but  now  I've  come  back  again.  What's  the  use  of 
running?  It's  all  up  with  me  anyhow.  Or" — his 
voice  suddenly  rose  from  its  dull  and  lifeless  tones 
into  a  wild  note  of  struggle  that  was  painful  to 
hear,  an  impetuous  cry  against  the  impossible — 
"or  is  there  hope,  is  there  still  hope?" 

The  father's  hand  rose  swiftly  to  his  heart  and 
was  held  there.  He  was  now  quite  pale,  but  forced 
himself  to  composure. 

"That's  a  deal  to  come  at  once,"  he  faltered. 
"You!  Was  it  you?" 

"How  do  I  know?  My  hand  anyhow" — and 
he  looked  at  it  as  at  some  awful  unknown  object, 
and  seemed  sickened  by  the  blood-spots  on  it  and 
the  recollection  of  their  lukewarm  feeling.  "Yes, 
of  course,"  he  resumed  firmly,  and  as  if  judging 
himself  irrevocably,  "I  did  it.  It  was  my  evil  fate. 
Is  there  any  hope?" 

In  these  few  seconds  Grels  had  had  time  to  take 
in  the  new  circumstances  with  all  that  they  involved. 

"There's  always  hope,"  said  he,  "but  not  as 
you  mean  it,  not  here  in  this  case."  And  for  answer 
he  merely  stepped  aside  and  left  the  view  open. 

The  dying  man  was  collecting  himself  for  a  final 


26o  PER  HALLSTROM 

struggle.  His  eyes  shone  as  though  they  wished  to 
get  back  their  ordinary  human  expression  before 
the  eddying  memories  from  the  dark  past;  his 
mouth  was  contorted  with  pain  and  opened  wide. 
It  was  as  though  all  his  being,  that  unknown  thing 
we  call  the  soul,  were  striving  to  break  its  bonds 
and  sink  into  something  still  more  unknown  but 
greater,  something  feared  but  at  the  same  time 
longed  for. 

Olof  saw  it,  but  seemed  to  have  no  further 
thoughts  or  feelings.  Dull,  fruitless  regret  stood 
darkly  in  his  eyes.  "If  only  I  had  not  done  it,"  he 
seemed  to  torture  himself  by  thinking,  "if!  if  I  If 
I  had  not  spoilt  my  life  !" 

The  sister's  face  repeated  the  movements  of  the 
dear  countenance  in  her  lap,  took  leave  of  the  same 
memories,  stiffened  in  the  same  cold.  A  little  more 
of  the  strain,  and  she  would  have  sunk  down  be- 
side the  corpse  in  the  same  death. 

Then  his  mouth  opened  still  wider  and  some- 
thing broke  from  it,  invisible  to  all  yet  to  all  equally 
real.  Like  one  of  the  bubbles  of  the  stream  below, 
it  burst  with  a  suggestion  of  sound  and  was  gone. 
And  immediately — a  silent  wonder — the  strug- 
gling lines  of  the  face  were  smoothed  out  to  rest 
as  before,  a  rest  much  deeper  than  before,  a  peace 
such  as  life  never  offers,  not  even  in  sleep.  Before 
this  sublime  and  noble  calm,  and  the  coolness  of 
the  air,  the  murmurs  of  the  water,  the  sense  of 


THE  WATER-FINDER  261 

what  was  fleeing  and  of  what  had  been  and  was  to 
be,  the  tears  welled  up  Into  the  eyes  of  all,  and 
most  abundantly  and  blessedly  Into  those  of  the 
mourner  by  his  head,  and  no  one  saw  anything 
more. 

Only  Olof  still  stood  erect,  cut  off  from  the  feel- 
ing shared  by  all,  dark  In  his  barren  regrets,  puz- 
zled and  boundlessly  poor. 

Grels  had  been  near  his  daughter  when  she  was 
left  alone,  as  though  to  receive  her  again  Into  the 
world  of  suffering  humanity,  to  assure  her  of 
support  and  comfort  there.  Before  he  led  her  away 
with  him  beside  the  corpse,  he  went  up  to  his  son 
and  looked  inquiringly  upon  him,  waiting  for  his 
final  words.  The  unhappy  youth  had  not  a  thought 
to  meet  him  with,  hardly  even  a  look. 

"I  shall  stop  here,"  was  all  he  said,  "till  they 
take  me." 

"That  was  what  I  expected  of  you."  And  to 
that  side  of  the  matter  he  gave  no  further  heed: 
it  was  decided  and  done  with.  "If  there's  anything 
more,  send  for  me  and  I  will  come." 

But  there  was  nothing  more,  and  Olof  stayed 
where  he  was,  pondering  and  brooding.  No  one 
kept  guard  over  him ;  evening  came,  and  he  still 
sat  there — until  they  took  him. 

After  that  I  saw  no  more  for  the  time  of  Grels 
and  his  children.  I  read  of  the  trial  In  a  newspaper. 
Olof  denied  nothing,  but  could  explain  nothing. 


262  PER  HALLSTROM 

either.  He  made  an  Impression  of  firmness,  manli- 
ness, but  of  a  certain  rigidity  also.  The  sentence 
was  as  mild  as  the  law  allowed,  but  still  hard 
enough — several  years'  imprisonment. 

And  summer  turned  to  winter,  and  summers  and 
winters  followed  each  other  again,  and  time 
went  on. 

Once  more  I  journeyed  to  those  parts,  and 
found  the  same  spring  again  and  everything  as 
before. 

I  asked  after  Grels,  whether  he  was  still  alive, 
and  how  it  was  with  him. 

Yes,  he  was  still  alive,  and  just  the  same.  Why 
not? — The  event  seemed  to  be  forgotten. 

And  the  daughter,  was  she  married? 

No — and  now  they  remembered — no,  she  was 
not  married:  she  had  not  forgotten  him  who  was 
dead.  She  was  indeed  quite  changed.  Not  old  yet, 
at  least  in  appearance,  but  very  grave.  Like  her 
father,  she  never  laughed,  and  she  resembled  him 
closely  now  in  all  her  ways.  When  there  were  sick- 
beds to  visit  or  other  things  to  do,  they  always 
came  together,  and  the  names  of  both  were  now 
mentioned  with  the  respect  that  had  always  been 
paid  to  his. 

And  the  son,  Olof,  was  he  still  in  prison?  Was 
anything  known  of  him? 

They  reckoned  up  on  their  fingers.  Yes,  he  must 
be  still  in  prison,  but  his  term  would  soon  expire. 


THE  WATER-FINDER  263 

It  might  do  so  any  time  now,  perhaps.  But  besides 
this  they  knew  little  about  him. 

Grels  had  once  gone  down  to  see  him,  but  Olof 
had  only  sent  the  message:  "I  am  still  the  same, 
I  am  not  worthy,"  and  Grels  had  quietly  come 
home  again.  "What  man  is,"  he  had  said  to  those 
who  had  marveled  at  the  answer,  "comes  from 
within.  If  he  has  that  within  him  which  I  am  wait- 
ing for,  it  will  break  out  some  time,  and  if  he  has  it 
not,  there's  still  less  use  in  talking.  He  shall  be 
welcome  if  and  when  the  time  has  come." 

They  had  asked  if  he  had  sent  word  to  his  son 
that  he  forgave  him,  but  his  only  answer  was: 
"What  magic  could  that  do?  We  do  not  live  on 
other's  words.  No,  I  sent  no  message,  and  I  have 
nothing  to  forgive,  either.  Should  I  push  in  be- 
tween my  son  and  his  fate  ?" 

They  found  these  words  incomprehensible 
enough,  but  no  one  entered  into  discussion  or  judg- 
ment of  them,  since  it  was  Grels  who  spoke  them, 
and  he  was  a  man  apart. 

The  vicar  had  also  once  been  in  the  county  town 
and  had  talked  with  the  prison  chaplain  there. 
The  latter  had  nothing  good  to  report.  The  pris- 
oner was  unlike  any  whom  he  had  had  to  do  with, 
blameless  in  his  conduct,  composed  and  calm,  but 
quite  unapproachable  so  far.  Religion  took  no  hold 
upon  him,  he  had  no  desire  for  freedom  and  yet 
did  not  fear  it,  either.  His  inner  life  seemed  shut 


264  PER  HALLSTROM 

within  a  vault  more  firm  than  the  prison  roof,  that 
of  hard,  unyielding  necessity.  "It  is  all  so  sense- 
less," he  would  often  say.  "If  they  had  taken  my 
life  in  return  I  could  have  understood  it,  but  to 
keep  me  here  is  petty  and  stupid."  The  officials 
feared  that  he  might  be  one  of  those  born  criminals 
whom  an  inexorable  fate  seems  to  drive  farther 
and  farther  along  the  path  they  have  once  trod- 
den, and  they  were  anxious  when  they  thought  of 
him  as  free. 

That  was  what  I  learnt,  and  I  did  not  think  I 
should  meet  any  of  the  three  again. 

But  one  day  another  well  was  to  be  dug,  and 
Grels  came  to  the  spot  to  practise  his  old  art.  I 
went  there  to  see  him  once  more. 

He  sat  on  the  ground,  just  as  when  I  first  made 
his  acquaintance,  to  rest  and  collect  his  strength, 
and,  as  before,  his  hand  absently  caressed  and 
stroked  the  grass.  He  was  greatly  changed,  though 
those  about  him  had  not  noticed  the  fact.  He  was 
now  an  old  man;  the  hair  had  receded  from 
his  forehead  and  was  very  gray;  his  back  was 
slightly  bent.  His  eyes,  still  as  clear  as  a  child's, 
now  showed  a  kind  of  inner  darkness  behind 
every  thought:  the  mystical  had  penetrated  into 
them. 

His  daughter  sat  near  him  among  the  flowers. 
She  no  longer  seemed  to  think  of  picking  them, 
but  looked  upon  them  as  precious  and  well-loved 


THE  WATER-FINDER  265 

things.  She  took  in  the  air  with  deep  breaths,  her 
complexion  uniformly  flushed  with  the  effort  of 
rowing,  her  hands  resting  in  her  lap  like  tired 
servants  who  have  done  their  duty  and  have  now 
no  more  to  occupy  them.  Her  look,  too,  was  a 
little  tired.  It  traveled  round  in  friendly  yet  sober 
fashion,  as  though  to  say:  It  is  all  so  wonderfully 
glad  and  lovely  here,  there  can  be  none  who  needs 
me!  There  was  health  in  all  her  presence  yet,  but 
none  the  less  she  contrasted  with  the  shining,  bud- 
ding life  about  her. 

It  was  an  amazingly  rich  and  smiling  spot  of 
earth. 

The  slope  was  steeper  here  than  elsewhere,  and 
flowed  down  to  the  river-bank  with  the  contours 
from  the  heights  above  clearly  perceptible  beneath 
the  fine  grass.  Against  the  wall  of  pine-woods  stood 
the  birches  with  their  shining  white  stems  and 
foliage  like  pure  golden  scent  and  vapor,  yet  so 
thick  that  only  above  their  tops  could  the  dark 
lines  of  the  pine  trees  form  a  background.  The 
river  lay  open  to  the  view,  curled  into  ripples  where 
the  fall  began.  It  burned  and  flashed  in  a  thousand 
flames,  while  great  shell-like  patches  sank  into  the 
blue  and  reappeared.  Farther  off,  before  it  curved, 
it  lay  serene  and  wide  as  the  heavens  themselves, 
reflecting  fleecy  clouds.  And  between  points  and 
islets,  stretch  upon  stretch  of  water  showed  itself. 

The  sunlight,  streaming  down  upon  the  green 


266  PER  HALLSTROM 

slope,  seemed  to  have  been  broken  as  by  a  prism, 
and  transformed  direct  into  the  colors  of  the  flow- 
ers. They  stood  thick  in  clumps  and  circles,  cow- 
slips and  anemones,  saxifrage  and  buttercups, 
blooming  In  unwonted  profusion.  From  the  new- 
built  farm,  all  clean  and  shining  with  Its  shingle 
roof,  a  light  blue  smoke  arose.  A  whistle  from  a 
locomotive  pierced  the  air,  and  the  train  rolled 
past  at  a  distance,  bearing  Its  unknown  freight, 
and  sharpening  by  the  noise  It  made  the  effect  of 
quiet  and  seclusion. 

When  he  had  rested  his  tired  arms,  Grels  rose 
and  with  practised  eye  looked  long  and  search- 
ingly  around. 

He  seemed  to  expect  quite  a  particular  pleasure 
in  this  case  from  the  finding  of  life-giving  streams, 
and  his  bent  head  could  be  Imagined  to  be  listening 
already  to  their  gentle  bubbling  and  murmuring 
In  the  depths.  He  walked  away  and  cut  a  hazel- 
twig,  slowly,  and  after  careful  choice. 

The  eyes  of  the  onlookers  followed  him,  and 
no  one  but  myself  paid  any  heed  to  two  men  who 
were  approaching  and  had  stopped  by  the  farm. 
There  was  something  In  their  clothes  and  bearing 
that  was  foreign  to  the  district,  and  I  therefore 
watched  them  with  attention. 

At  once  I  recognized  that  It  was  Olof  and  prob- 
ably an  attendant  from  the  prison.  They  must  have 
come  direct  from  there.  On  account  of  their  mis- 


THE  WATER-FINDER  267 

givlngs,  the  authorities  had  not  wished  to  leave  the 
prisoner  alone  until  they  got  him  home. 

Even  at  a  distance  his  face  could  be  seen  to  be 
pale  from  his  confinement,  and  perhaps  also  from 
emotion.  I  gave  an  involuntary  shiver.  To  think 
that  he  should  come  just  now,  In  the  midst  of  all 
this,  in  the  spring-time ! 

For  him  it  must  have  been  a  strangely  moving 
spectacle.  Those  last  days  in  prison,  with  the  fu- 
ture anxiety  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  the  ques- 
tion:  What  have  you  to  do  with  life  out  there, 
what  road  will  you  take  in  it  to  hide  yourself?  And 
then  the  change  of  seasons  taking  place,  more  rap- 
idly for  him  than  for  others,  guessed  at  in  a 
glimpse  over  a  wall,  the  dance  of  motes  in  the  sun- 
light streaming  through  a  grating,  beyond  his 
reach  like  all  else  that  he  had  lost,  forfeited  with 
all  the  other  joys  of  life.  The  day  of  release  came, 
and  all  this  was  over.  It  was  a  world  ready-made 
that  he  looked  out  upon,  a  world  with  no  place  for 
him,  lovely  but  strange. 

After  that  the  journey  north  through  woods 
that  resembled  his  own,  over  rivers  with  their  fa- 
miliar and  stimulating  voice.  Then,  suddenly, 
spring  again,  hope,  joy  as  an  aching  possibility  once 
more.  But,  anon,  memory  still  heavier  than  before, 
that  which  was  forfeited  still  more  irrevocably  lost. 

He  turned  dizzy,  and  half  to  gain  support,  half 
also  out  of  a  desire  to  remain  unseen,  he  pressed 


268  PER  HALLSTROM 

himself  against  the  corner  of  the  house  and  stood 
there  watching,  silent  and  still. 

Grels  had  his  dowsing-rod  ready,  and  walked 
in  a  stooping  position  over  the  grass.  The  rod 
began  almost  immediately  to  tremble  in  his  hand, 
for  there  must  have  been  water  all  around,  but  he 
searched  for  the  best  vein  and  went  up  and  down 
the  slope,  to  and  fro,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground 
and  the  light  playing  about  his  bent  and  aging 
figure. 

I  could  imagine  how  the  eyes  of  the  young  man 
over  there  must  be  dilating  at  the  sight,  how  his 
memory  would  go  far  back,  and  how,  as  In  child- 
hood, a  mysterious  reverence  would  fill  him  at  the 
sight  that  met  his  eyes.  I  could  see  him  peering  at 
the  signs  of  old  age  and  sorrow,  and  could  fancy 
that  all  must  seem  strange  to  him  as  a  dream, 
whose  meaning  we  search  for  even  In  sleep. 

Grels  had  found  the  vein,  had  followed  It  up, 
stopped  where  the  rod  pointed  down  as  though 
never  to  be  removed  from  the  place,  pushed  It 
firmly  Into  the  ground,  and  raised  his  eyes. 

The  first  sight  that  met  them  was  his  son's  white 
face  right  opposite.  All  the  others  saw  it  at  the 
same  moment. 

Grels  stood  still  and  let  his  hands  drop.  They 
trembled  as  the  rod  had  lately  done,  then  fumbled 
about  In  a  curious  manner,  were  checked,  fell  down, 
and  stopped  half-way.  Suddenly  they  were  pulled 


THE  WATER-FINDER  269 

up  as  by  some  alien  power,  and  with  clear  eyes  and 
outstretched  arms  he  stood  waiting. 

There  came  the  prodigal,  lurching  rapidly  over 
the  grass  and  almost  falling.  He  reached  his 
father,  and  with  violent  sobs  buried  himself  in  his 
bosom.  They  both  stood  trembling. 

I  turned  towards  the  sister.  She  had  grown  white 
and  was  looking  at  them.  No  doubt  she  had  "for- 
given" him,  as  the  phrase  goes,  but  now,  when  she 
saw  the  slayer  of  her  lover  close  at  hand,  she  felt 
how  hard  it  was  to  mean  that  word  sincerely,  and 
the  chilling  memory  rose  up  before  her.  The  sound 
of  the  waterfall  was  in  her  ears  now  as  then,  and 
she  seemed  drawn  dizzily  along  by  it  towards  all 
the  grief  and  horror  that  the  years  had  dulled  but 
could  not  kill. 

Gently  but  firmly  Grels  freed  himself  from  his 
son's  convulsive  grasp,  held  him  at  arm's  length, 
and  looked  into  his  pale  shining  face  and  feverish 
eyes.  Olof  made  no  movement  to  hide  his  head. 
As  it  seemed  without  a  thought  of  himself,  he  let 
his  soul  be  searched  by  that  strange,  clear,  mys- 
teriously omniscient  look.  Neither  of  them  cared 
that  all  were  looking  at  them,  however  much  it 
was  otherwise  against  their  natures  to  reveal  their 
inward  feelings.  Quite  alone  they  stood  there,  ex- 
isting only  for  each  other,  two  of  one  stock,  meet- 
ing soul  to  soul. 

"Father,  Father,"  the  words  came  at  last,  stam- 


270  PER  HALLSTROM 

mering  and  childishly  simple  in  the  moved  and 
deep  manly  tones,  "I  love  you!"  The  bareness  of 
the  phrase  made  its  meaning  richer,  and  calm  and 
firm  came  Grels's  answer:  "  'Tis  a  good  and  bless- 
ed sight,  my  son.  I  knew  that  I  should  see  it  one 
day.  And  so  of  all  the  rest  there  need  be  no  more 
words  between  us." 

And  he  gripped  his  son's  hands  as  if  In  greeting 
between  equals,  in  token  of  redress  and  dismissal 
from  all  the  past. 

Retaining  one  hand,  he  drew  him  towards  his 
sister.  "Here,"  said  he,  "you  have  something  to 
try  to  win  back.  Me  you  have  always  had."  And 
he  left  them  together.  It  might  be  for  fear  of  dis- 
turbing them,  out  of  a  deep  and  delicate  feeling 
that  even  he  could  only  interfere  as  a  stranger  in 
their  reconciliation.  Or  perhaps  he  needed  action 
if  he  himself  was  to  regain  the  calm  that  so  far  he 
had  only  forced  himself  outwardly  to  show.  How- 
ever It  was,  he  seized  his  spade  with  hands  that 
trembled  slightly,  and  went  back  to  work  at  the 
spot  where  the  well  was  to  be. 

The  man  from  the  prison  now  came  up  to  state 
his  errand.  With  the  commission  of  trust  he  had, 
and  his  irreproachable  bearing  as  the  representa- 
tive of  law  and  order,  though  not  In  uniform,  he 
could  not  but  feel  himself  to  be  a  person  of  Import- 
ance In  this  circle,  and  the  consciousness  appeared 
in  all  his  square  and  rigid  figure.  He  began  by  a 


THE  WATER-FINDER  271 

long  speech  in  the  style  of  an  usher  of  court  (not 
much  dryer,  incidentally,  than  the  style  of  his  su- 
periors) of  how  he  presumed  that  this  was  his 
charge's  father  etc.,  and  since  at  the  prison  they 
had  had  certain  misgivings  etc.,  and  were  fully  con- 
vinced of  the  importance  of  a  firm  and  consistent 
future  upbringing  for  the  prisoner  on  the  grounds 
laid  down  by  the  authorities — with  much  more  of 
the  like  nature — therefore  ....  But  he  never 
brought  his  period  to  a  close. 

Grels  nodded  at  him  with  a  friendly  smile,  and 
with  the  mere  look  broke  off  his  stream  of  words. 
Without  further  explanation  he  set  his  crowbar 
into  the  ground,  and  while  the  man,  silenced  by 
resentment  and  doubt,  drew  back  a  step  or  two, 
he  began  his  work. 

It  proceeded  with  swift,  hopeful,  swinging 
movements,  the  iron  clanged  against  the  stones, 
and  as  the  sunlight  wove  its  glory  about  him  and 
all  his  being,  he  seemed  younger  and  stronger  than 
before. 

The  brother  and  sister  were  left  standing  silent, 
staring  into  each  other's  white  and  altered  faces. 
They  looked,  not  as  one  does  at  something  real, 
but  as  upon  an  apparition,  such  as  excited  minds 
may  see  when  a  sudden  impression  of  light  para- 
lyzes the  outward  power  of  perception.  Their  feel- 
ings were  too  deep  for  words,  their  tongues  were 
tied,  the  present  had  no  meaning  for  them,  the 


272  PER  HALLSTROM 

memories  of  the  past  alone  took  life  again  in  bod- 
ily shape. 

There  were  long  years  of  mourning  and  bitter- 
ness for  her,  of  dark  despair  for  him,  hopelessness 
in  the  patient  fulfilment  of  the  daily  tasks,  and  in 
the  emptiness  of  prison.  The  dead  man  was  be- 
tween their  feet,  and  the  deed  that  had  broken 
both  their  lives  rose  up  between  them  with  para- 
lyzing chill  in  the  murmur  of  the  waterfall. 

Shyly  and  doubtfully  the  brother  raised  his 
hand,  the  sister  saw  the  movement,  met  it  with  her 
look,  and  trembled.  For  a  moment  they  both  stared 
at  it,  as  if  they  saw  the  spots  of  blood  there  still. 
They  were  as  far  as  ever  from  each  other,  and  had 
they  spoken,  the  words  would  have  sealed  a  life- 
long parting. 

But  they  were  silent,  the  hand  sank  back  as  tim- 
idly as  it  had  risen,  and  their  eyes  met  once  more. 
They  lived  back  into  their  memories  again. 

For  her,  it  was  her  days  of  dreaming  over  the 
certain  happiness  awaiting  her,  for  him  his  early 
hopes  and  violent  longings  after  action,  power, 
and  life.  Their  lips  twitched  mournfully.  They 
went  still  farther  back.  They  saw  each  other  as 
children  in  friendship  and  in  play,  in  feelings 
whose  warmth  was  unsuspected,  they  peered  into 
each  other's  bloodless  faces  for  any  signs  of  the 
vanished  past,  just  as  in  the  ashes  of  a  sheet  of 
paper  we  can  trace  the  shadowy  writing. 


THE  WATER-FINDER  273 

Then  there  slowly  passed  over  both  a  trans- 
formation, coming  from  within  with  a  gentle  light 
that  spread  radiant  into  the  look  and  even  pene- 
trated to  the  pallid  cheeks.  It  was  no  longer  his 
own  self  that  each  saw,  the  other  was  no  more  a 
stranger  there.  The  bridge  was  stretched  from 
soul  to  soul,  the  time  for  the  miracle  had  come. 
Brother  and  sister,  merged  like  dewdrop  with  dew- 
drop  in  the  memory  of  their  common  happiness, 
understood  each  other  and  forgot  themselves, 
melted  in  the  same  compassion  for  each  other's 
ravaged  life.  No  longer  was  It  one  that  had  of- 
fended and  one  that  had  been  wronged,  It  was  the 
same  sorrow  for  both,  and  the  same  hope  rising 
out  of  it.  Neither  of  them  knew  which  made  the 
first  movement,  whose  tears  It  was  that  drew  the 
other's  with  them;  breast  to  breast  they  rocked 
each  other  with  their  tears  and  reconciliation.  And 
since  It  came  without  a  word,  their  feeling  had 
nothing  of  the  limitation  of  speech.  From  the  deep- 
est depths  It  rose,  instinctively  and  without  end. 

When  they  both  looked  up,  the  father's  tool 
was  clanging  no  less  merrily.  Hand  In  hand  like 
children  they  went  up  to  him.  He  looked  at  them 
and  nodded,  as  though  the  sight  were  just  what  he 
had  expected,  signed  to  them  to  wait  a  moment, 
then  stooped  down,  and  pried  at  the  ground.  A 
large  stone  rolled  down  the  slope  before  them,  and 
a  cheerful  splashing  sound  was  heard. 


274  PER  HALLSTROM 

Grels  threw  down  his  tools  and  clasped  his  chil- 
dren to  him,  standing  erect  and  smiling,  with  clear 
eyes  and  radiant  face.  At  their  feet,  a  bubbling  jet 
rose  glittering  In  the  sunshine,  the  water  sprang 
up  a  yard  from  the  ground  under  the  subterranean 
pressure,  splashed  their  clothes,  and  fell  down  to 
run  on  in  a  stream  through  flowers  and  grass.  Like 
a  song  the  jet  burst  forth,  spontaneous  and  fresh, 
and  the  first  stream,  still  a  little  clouded  with  clay 
and  sand,  now  grew  clear  and  sparkling,  the  love- 
liest thing  on  all  this  lovely  earth. 

They  stood  and  looked  at  It  hand  In  hand,  with 
silent  wonder.  Lowering  their  eyes  In  the  sunlight, 
they  gazed  dreamily  upon  the  blue  surface  of  the 
river,  where  the  way  led  to  their  home  and  future 
life. 

And  there  I  left  them. 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE 

[  TRADGARDSMASTARFRUN-i 

FROM  NYA  NOVELLER 

1921 


T^he  Gardener  s  Wife 

SHE  HAD  been  married  several  years,  and 
this  Easter  she  was  on  her  first  visit  to  her  par- 
ents, poor  working-people  in  a  country  town. 

She  had  long  looked  forward  to  showing  them 
her  boy,  who  was  tall  and  strong  for  his  age  and 
really  not  at  all  as  the  pink-toned  photograph 
made  him  out  to  be.  It  had  a  splendid  background 
of  palms  and  stone  parapet,  but  the  child's  face 
had  become  sulky  in  vain  expectation  of  the  tradi- 
tional bird,  and  his  clothes  fitted  him  badly.  The 
journey  would  also  be  a  much  needed  rest  and 
relaxation  for  herself.  She  would  be  able  to  sleep 
till  late  in  the  morning,  to  chat  over  a  cup  of  coffee 
all  day  long,  and  carefully  repeat  all  the  conversa- 
tions that  she  herself  could  remember  or  that 
others  had  engaged  in.  She  would  make  the  very 
most  of  everything  she  had  or  hoped  to  have,  and 
tell  the  price  of  all  the  clothes  she  had  brought 
with  her.  All  this  amid  smiles  of  tired  happiness, 
and  sighs  over  vanished  youth  and  folly  such  as 
became  a  little  married  woman. 

The  husband  had  to  remain  at  his  post  at  the 
Hall,  for  extensive  rose-culture  was  carried  on 
there,  and  just  at  this  season  the  budding  stems  in 
the  rose-houses  required  careful  attention.  They 

277 


278  PER  HALLSTROM 

promised  particularly  well  this  spring,  and  the 
gardener  and  his  wife  built  not  a  little  upon 
their  percentage  of  the  sale.  It  was  in  anticipa- 
tion of  this  windfall  that  her  journey  could  be 
thought  of. 

Yet  she  got  very  little  pleasure  from  It.  The 
child  took  cold  on  the  railway  journey,  was  ill 
when  they  arrived,  and  caused  only  trouble,  which 
made  the  grandparents  grumble  and  distressed  the 
mother.  Then  danger  and  panic  followed.  The 
boy  grew  worse  and  worse  for  a  few  days,  and 
died  when  he  could  live  no  longer. 

The  mother  was  distracted,  but  as  generally 
happens  with  the  poor,  it  was  not  the  loss  Itself 
that  she  was  free  to  mourn.  Circumstances  took 
care  that  there  should  not  be  wanting  those  anxie- 
ties for  trifles  which  at  once  tear  open  and  conceal 
the  wound.  The  luxury  of  a  complete  and  undis- 
turbed sorrow  may  be  as  unattainable  as  extrava- 
gances much  more  pleasant.  The  financial  ques- 
tion, as  always,  obtruded  Itself. 

The  boy's  Illness  had  cost  something,  and  her 
purse  had  been  carefully  adjusted  to  previous  con- 
ditions. A  living  child  of  tender  years  may  travel 
free  upon  the  railway,  but  a  dead  one  has  lost  this 
right,  along  with  many  others  more  agreeable. 
He  has  suddenly  become  a  very  serious  and  Im- 
portant personage,  whose  dignity  necessitates  a 
number  of  arrangements  and  ceremonies.  To  buy 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE  279 

a  coffin  now  could  not  be  thought  of,  and,  more- 
over, the  mother  would  have  found  it  infinitely 
hard  to  leave  her  dead  child  alone  in  the  luggage- 
van,  in  return  for  a  receipt.  When  it  was  still  so 
cold,  too !  Besides,  she  had  no  money  to  pay  the 
carriage :  she  had  only  her  return  ticket.  To  go 
home  alone  on  this,  after  having  had  the  child 
buried  in  the  town,  was  still  more  dreadful  to  think 
of.  And  besides,  that  plan,  too,  was  Impracticable 
on  account  of  the  expense.  The  only  thing  left  to 
do  was  to  go  back  as  she  had  come,  with  the  dead 
body  on  her  knee,  pretending  that  it  was  a  living 
child.  It  was  a  dangerous  undertaking,  a  swindle 
with  Heaven  knew  what  penalties  attached  to  it. 
Yet  it  must  be  carried  out,  and  that  quickly,  as 
soon  as  she  had  got  the  death  certificate,  if  it  was 
to  be  possible  at  all.  That  was  quite  enough  to 
think  over  and  torment  herself  about  all  that  even- 
ing and  night,  and  in  her  terror  she  had  neither 
strength  nor  opportunity  to  mourn  for  her  child 
as  she  would  have  wished.  It  almost  seemed  to  her 
that  it  would  not  have  been  so  bad  at  all  if  he  had 
only  died  at  home. 

Next  morning  she  was  at  the  train  very  early. 
She  wished  first  of  all  to  find  a  place  in  the  corner 
of  a  ladles'  compartment,  as  mercifully  dark  as 
could  be  found.  She  was  most  afraid  of  the  ticket 
collector,  the  natural  foe  to  an  enterprise  such  as 
hers.  He  was  terrifying  enough  in  any  case,  with 


28o  PER  HALLSTROM 

the  shining  buttons  even  on  the  back  of  his  uniform, 
and  a  many-eyed  vigilance,  an  inflexible  sense  of 
justice,  that  were  in  some  way  connected  with  them. 
Much  depended,  too,  upon  her  traveling  compan- 
ions, whether  they  were  quiet  people  who  would 
let  her  keep  her  lips  closed,  or  meddlesome  fami- 
lies with  children.  The  last  possibility  froze  her 
blood.  The  thought  of  the  little  ones  climbing 
about,  or  only  sitting  staring  with  eyes  that  could 
open  and  shut,  was  one  that  was  not  to  be  borne. 

"Why  did  I  have  him?"  she  thought.  "What 
does  it  all  mean?  There's  no  meaning  in  it,  no 
meaning  at  all."  That  was  the  worst  part  of  her 
grief. 

However,  Fortune  seemed  willing  to  favor  her, 
for  only  two  persons  came  into  her  compartment. 
One  was  an  elderly  woman  with  purple  in  her  hat, 
and  an  abrupt,  reserved  air,  who  was  entirely  taken 
up  with  looking  after  two  parcels  and  an  umbrella. 
The  other  was  a  younger  woman,  dressed  in  rusty 
black,  with  the  rings  looking  very  large  on  her  thin 
hand.  She  stared  out  of  the  window  most  of  the 
time,  and  dared  not  look  at  any  one. 

The  train  rattled  out  of  the  station,  swaying  to 
and  fro  as  it  caught  the  points.  The  noise  was 
dreadful,  and  the  increasing  light  distressed  her. 
But  to  have  left  this  place  of  misery  was  at  least 
something  gained.  Part  of  her  terror,  it  seemed, 
might  be  left  behind  there.  There  was  hope  in  the 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE  281 

fact  that  the  carriage  containing  her  could  really 
have  begun  to  move. 

All  was  silent  till  the  collector  came  along  and 
;  jnched  the  tickets  with  his  tightly  nipping  instru- 
ment. 

"How  old?"  he  asked,  Indicating  the  bundle  on 
her  knee. 

"Two  years,  going  three." 

"That's  what  they  all  say."  He  measured  them 
both  with  a  look  of  experienced  mistrust.  "Tall 
for  that  age!  When  was  his  birthday?" 

Had  she  faltered  at  all  in  her  answer,  he  would 
have  suspected  something.  The  gardener's  wife 
knew  that,  and  heroically  restrained  the  trembling 
in  her  voice.  She  thought  she  ought  to  smile,  and 
managed  to  do  so,  in  spite  of  the  memories  that  the 
question  aroused. 

"Twenty-third  of  June,  Midsummer  Eve." 

"Capital!  Well,  you  know  best,  I  suppose,  since 
it's  so  easy  to  remember,"  said  he,  with  elegant 
facetlousness.  "Then  he  must  have  his  bucket  and 
spade,  don't  forget!  It  must  be  a  boy,  at  least?" 
He  peered  again,  but  could  not  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  child's  face,  "Very  tall,  anyhow!"  He  could 
not  get  away  from  that. 

"Yes,  such  a  big,  fine  boy!  But  he  only  looks 
so  tall  because  he's  lying  down.  When  he  stands 
up,  he's  only  so  high." 

She  tried  to  measure,  but  could  not  recollect, 


282  PER   HALLSTROM 

and  stopped  short  with  a  trembling  of  the 
hand.  "I  daren't  wake  him,"  she  added  anx- 
iously; "he's  a  little  poorly,  and  sleep  is  so  good 
for  him." 

The  old  woman  on  the  same  seat  joined  in  with 
evident  concern: 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  what  are  you  doing?  Let's 
have  no  children  crying !  In  a  train  they  never  fin- 
ish. As  bad  as  canaries  when  your  sewing-machine's 
working;  the  more  noise  there  is,  the  louder  they 
sing. 

The  mother  did  not  like  this  way  of  speaking 
of  her  boy,  but  was  glad  enough  of  the  help.  The 
official  was  scared  at  the  mere  thought. 

"All  right,  then,"  he  grumbled,  and  disappeared. 
The  woman  opposite  turned  her  pale  face  with 
interest  towards  the  interior  of  the  compartment. 

The  gardener's  wife  breathed  once  more,  and 
was  almost  happy  since  the  first  and  worst  ordeal 
was  over.  The  woman  in  black  she  was  not  afraid 
of,  but  the  older  woman  was  certainly  dangerous, 
so  that  it  was  still  necessary  to  be  very  cautious. 
It  had  hurt  her  to  talk  as  she  had  done,  just  as 
if  her  little  one  were  alive,  but  still  it  had  been 
wonderfully  easy.  "I'll  pretend  to  myself,  too,  that 
it  is  so,"  she  thought;  "that's  the  only  way."  She 
was  pleased  that  now  she  was  practically  ac- 
quainted with  her  fellow-passengers. 

"My  boy  doesn't  cry,"  she  said.  "He's  always 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE  283 

good,  though  he's  not  quite  well  just  now.  Nothing 
serious,"  she  added  quickly,  so  as  not  to  arouse 
too  lively  an  Interest  and  also  to  delude  herself. 
She  pressed  the  terribly  rigid  little  body  to  her, 
so  that  everything  looked  well  and  safe. — "Noth- 
ing serious  at  all,  now." 

"He  lies  uncommonly  still,"  answered  the  old 
lady,  without  reflecting  any  further  about  them. 

"He  always  does  that  when  he  knows  he's  with 
me.  Else  it  may  happen  ....  But  now  he's  so 
safe  that  he  doesn't  even  turn  round." 

"Then  he  must  be  quite  well  again." 

"Oh,  yes!"  Here  she  saw  that  she  ought  to 
smile  once  more.  "There's  nothing  much  the  mat- 
ter with  him  now.  I  was  a  bit  anxious,  because  we 
were  away  from  home,  but  now  .   .  .   ." 

She  herself  almost  believed  what  she  said.  Just 
about  as  much  as  she  did  any  other  time  when  she 
had  said  to  herself,  "I  am  happy,"  and  had  felt 
at  the  same  moment  that  there  was  something  dan- 
gerous in  those  words.  One  should  never  try  to 
look  behind  them,  but  should  think:  "It  must  be 
so,  since  it  looks  so  now." 

The  rattling  speed  of  the  train  came  greatly  to 
her  assistance.  The  shadows  of  the  telegraph-posts 
glided  constantly  by  the  window,  and  trees  and 
other  objects  moved  their  positions  like  clouds.  It 
was  as  though  one  could  not  have  taken  hold  of 
anything,  even  had  one  wished,  In  this  constant 


284  PER   HALLSTROM 

hurrying  on  without  stopping :  everything  seemed 
to  be  in  a  state  of  flux.  On  the  fields  the  snow  lay 
hard  and  gray;  behind,  the  woods  shot  past  with 
the  blue  mist  of  a  thaw  gleaming  between  the  tree- 
trunks,  and  here  and  there  a  ray  of  sunshine.  It 
was  like  a  screen  that  seemed  to  represent  some- 
thing but  was  nothing  real.  Everything  became 
what  one  would  have  it  be,  and  the  traveler  merely 
flew  onwards  without  really  knowing  how.  The 
whole  thing  was  a  kind  of  dizzy  game. 

"Yes,  I  am  so  happy  now,"  she  resumed,  in 
order  to  be  really  sure  of  her  ground,  and  that  no 
silence  might  set  in.  For  in  this  case  one  could  not 
be  certain  what  a  silence  might  bring  forth. 

The  old  woman  paid  no  heed  to  the  informa- 
tion, but  got  up  and  counted  her  two  parcels,  so  as 
to  assure  herself  that  no  thief  had  slipped  in  be- 
hind the  ticket-collector's  back.  But  the  other  pas- 
senger looked  at  the  group  opposite  her  with  a 
thin  and  melancholy  smile. 

"Children  are  too  delightful,"  she  said,  with  one 
of  those  suppressed  and  slightly  sluggish  voices 
that  at  once  convey  an  impression  of  very  few 
ideas  and  very  little  joy  in  life.  But  the  gardener's 
wife  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  her  look  and 
tone,  and  suspected  them  of  being  slyly  penetrat- 
ing. That  she  could  not  bear,  just  when  she  had 
found  the  right  way  of  jesting  bravely  and  bearing 
up.  People  ought  to  help  her  instead  and  believe 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE  285 

her  at  once,  so  that  she  might  find  it  easier  to 
believe  herself. 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  she  answered  in  a  superior 
tone,  and  raised  her  chin  to  show  how  confident 
she  was. 

"I  have  never  had  any  of  my  own." 

Now  there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  her  innocence, 
for  the  words  sounded  so  heavy  and  dejected  that 
it  was  evident  that  she  was  thinking  only  of  herself. 
The  gardener's  wife  felt  her  own  importance  and 
enjoyed  it,  while  at  the  same  time  she  clung  more 
firmly  to  the  fiction  she  had  invented. 

"That's  a  pity,"  she  said,  but  there  was  no  real 
sympathy  in  her  tone,  for  she  had  no  strength  to 
spare  just  then.  "So  you've  never  known  what  it 
is  to  be  a  mother." 

The  remark  was  obvious,  but  that  did  not  occur 
to  either  of  them.  On  the  contrary,  both  pon- 
dered long  upon  the  thought,  which  they  found 
new  and  wonderful  enough.  The  gardener's  wife 
lifted  her  chin  a  little  higher,  and  was  not  afraid, 
although  the  sunshine  suddenly  broke  in  upon 
her. 

"N-no,  perhaps  not,"  the  other  agreed  humbly, 
and  blew  her  nose,  "perhaps  not,  though  of  course 
one  can  imagine.  Especially  when  one  has  wanted 
them  badly." 

And  then  out  came  her  secret,  clumsily  and  child- 
ishly. 


286  PER   HALLSTROM 

"I  have  done  so  for  many  years  now,  and  I  have 
been  a  widow  since  last  summer." 

"That's  very  sad.  I  must  condole  with  you," 
said  the  gardener's  wife,  and  blushed  as  she  said 
it,  for  the  phrase  was  hardly  polite  and  suitable  so 
long  afterwards.  But  the  other  was  obviously  no 
judge  of  such  matters. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she,  and  then  passed  on  to 
that  which  filled  her  thoughts.  "It's  my  work  that 
makes  me  do  it." 

"Oh?" — What  had  that  to  do  with  it,  and  why 
were  people  so  intrusive? 

"I  sew  for  a  baby-linen  firm.  They  don't  pay 
well,  and  you  have  to  be  quick.  But  it's  pleasant 
work." 

The  gardener's  wife  became  interested.  She  had 
often  admired  these  little  garments  and  wanted 
them  for  her  boy.  She  should  like  to  know  if  they 
were  hard  to  make,  and  what  they  might  cost. 

"When  I  have  been  sewing  at  cloaks  and  hoods, 
those  cloaks  of  white  cashmere  with  swan's-down, 
I  have  thought  how  nice  it  would  be  to  make  one 
for  my  own  little  girl." 

"A  boy  is  best,"  said  the  gardener's  wife,  and 
raised  hers  a  little  on  her  benumbed  arm. 

"Yes,  perhaps,  but  they  don't  have  hoods  with 
that  soft  stuii  in  them.  It  was  always  a  girl  I 
thought  of.  And  I  do  still,"  she  added,  with  a  smile 
still  more  helpless  than  before.  "When  the  hood's 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE  287 

freshly  finished  and  I  have  tied  the  ribbons  on  to 
try  them,  then  especially  .  .  .  ." 

At  these  words  the  gardener's  wife  saw  before 
her  something  which  she  had  often  noticed  without 
thinking  of  any  comparison  with  children.  She  saw 
roses  that  had  been  wrapped  round  with  cotton 
so  that  they  should  not  open  too  fast.  All  the  great 
rose-house  at  home  stood  before  her  as  the  March 
sunshine  streamed  in,  more  light  and  clear  than 
anything  else  in  the  snow-covered  landscape  with 
its  shadows  of  blue.  In  the  light  shone  delicate 
green  leaves  and  slender  stems,  and  the  buds  grew 
so  thickly  that  they  looked  unreal.  There  some- 
times one  became  gravely  glad  at  heart.  "I  will 
hold  fast  to  that,"  she  thought;  "it  is  there  I  will 
pretend  to  be."  In  her  overwrought  state  she  was 
easily  able  to  delude  herself,  especially  if  she  half- 
closed  her  eyes,  so  that  the  sunshine  glittered  on 
the  lashes.  It  was  only  as  if  in  the  distance,  and 
with  a  constant  wondering  what  it  was,  that  she 
heard  the  train  rushing  on  its  way. 

'•'I  have  even  sewn  a  hood,"  continued  her  com- 
panion shyly  and  artlessly,  "out  of  bits  that  were 
left  over  once.  When  I  take  it  up,  I  think  that  I 
have  had  a  child  that  has  gone,  and  that  by  this 
time  it  would  have  been  something." 

The  gardener's  wife  started,  opened  her  eyes, 
and  fastened  upon  her  a  gaze  so  dark  that  she 
grew  quite  frightened. 


288  PER   HALLSTROM 

"Don't  talk  like  that!"  she  said. 

The  seamstress  was  at  once  convinced  that  she 
had  been  foolish,  and  regretted  her  confessions.  "I 
fancy  her  only  quite  little,"  she  made  haste  to 
add,  for  fear  of  ending  too  abruptly,  "never  that 
she  will  grow  up." 

The  mother  answered  nothing,  and  by  a  great 
effort  managed  to  think  nothing,  either.  She 
blinked  and  felt  the  sunshine  upon  her  face,  and 
had  a  moment's  peace  again.  The  old  woman  brok^ 
in  with  a  voice  so  decided  and  loud  that  she  was 
afraid  the  child  would  be  wakened. 

"Better  not  to  think  any  farther,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  seamstress,  confidingly. 

"Hm !  Any  one  can  see  you've  never  had  any! 
When  they're  small,  you  get  a  little  pleasure  out 
of  'em  for  your  trouble,  or  at  least  you  think  you 
do.  But  once  they  can  understand,  the  trouble  be- 
gins, and  when  they  grow  up,  there  it  is  ready  for 
you."  And  she  continued  in  obvious  personal  bit- 
terness, though  she  avoided  giving  examples,  to 
recite  a  whole  jeremiad  of  the  woes  and  sufferings 
that  await  a  mother — the  bad  companions  that 
come  along  In  their  time,  the  untruthfulness  so 
easily  learned,  the  lightness  of  adult  age,  crime 
at  the  worst,  Ingratitude  all  the  while. 

The  seamstress  gazed  at  her  In  terror,  crushed 
by  her  wisdom  and  experience,  yet  eager  to  defend 
one  who  could  not  defend  herself. 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE  289 

"My  little  girl  would  never  have  been  like  that," 
she  faltered.  "She  would  have  been  called  Ame- 
lia,"— at  which  she  felt  herself  pitiably  silly  and 
stopped  short. 

The  old  lady  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"Oh,  I've  nothing  against  her,  of  course.  I'm 
only  speaking  of  children  in  general.  And,  any- 
how, girls  aren't  the  worst.  They've  got  to  learn 
what  it  means  to  have  them,  too,  and  if  they  come 
back  badly  knocked  about,  still  they  generally 
do  come  back  in  the  end.  But  the  boys,  those 
that  you  were  weakest  for,  they  know  how  to  pay 
you  back." 

And  now  her  words  became  harsher  than  before. 
It  was  plain  that  she  had  had  recent  experience  of 
trouble  on  account  of  some  son,  and  it  may  have 
been  from  a  prison  cell  she  was  returning.  She  was 
a  shrewd  old  woman,  who  seemed  to  have  many 
ideas  in  her  head,  and  she  tried  to  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  that  which  lay  before  her.  If  one  could 
only  keep  them,  that  was  her  complaint:  if  only 
they  didn't  despise  one,  so  that  everything  one 
could  teach  them  was  thrown  away  on  them.  But 
sooner  than  anything  they  learn  that  a  mother 
is  to  be  looked  down  on,  because  she  is  only  a 
woman,  while  they  are  men.  The  idlest  grin  of  any 
of  their  own  sex  counts  for  more  than  her  best 
words.  It  isn't  the  father's  custom  to  say  much, 
and  he  doesn't  like  being  worried.  And  so  things 


290  PER   HALLSTROM 

have  to  go  as  they  may,  well  or  ill,  always  away 
from  her  as  soon  as  others  begin  to  take  hold. 

"Then  you  have  to  get  your  bits  of  things  to- 
gether and  look  after  them  for  yourself  as  well 
as  you  can,"  she  concluded;  "they'll  have  'em  after 
you,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

She  counted  her  parcels  again  like  an  experi- 
enced and  weary  soul,  who  had  no  illusions  left, 
and  was  tolerably  well  content  with  her  loneliness. 

The  gardener's  wife  could  not  bear  her,  and 
would  not  sit  in  silence  and  agree  with  her.  She 
seemed  to  separate  her  from  the  child  with  her 
cold  words.  That  must  not  be,  and  least  of  all  now. 
Every  time  her  thoughts  were  on  the  way  to  fol- 
low her,  the  air  grew  empty  and  awful,  and  some- 
thing infinitely  sorrowful,  far  worse  than  anything 
the  old  woman  talked  of,  seemed  ready  to  fall 
upon  her.  She  refused  to  know  what  it  was.  She 
closed  her  eyes,  as  long  as  the  words  continued, 
and  found  her  wondrous  peace  again  in  the  sun- 
shine and  the  clear  vision  of  the  roses  and  the 
green.  When  they  ceased,  she  began  to  talk  to  the 
seamstress,  for  with  the  other  she  would  have 
nothing  to  do.  She  found  the  words  so  quickly 
that  she  amazed  her  listener,  who  had  never  before 
seen  such  burning  eyes  or  such  a  fevered  flush 
coming  and  going  on  the  cheeks. 

"My  boy  isn't  like  that,"  said  she;  "he's  never 
given  me  an  uneasy  moment,  and  he  never  will. 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE  291 

He's  such  a  darling!  It's  a  pity  he's  asleep,  so 
that  I  can't  show  him.  So  round  he  is,  and  red,  and 
healthy :  you  never  saw  such  a  boy.  And  he'll  never 
tell  me  a  lie.  You  can  see  that  in  his  eyes,  and  be- 
sides, he's  too  fond  of  me.  He's  so  strong,  he  can 
carry  the  little  watering-can,  and  he  follows  close 
behind  me  like  a  little  dog,  when  I  go  and  look 
after  the  roses.  Sometimes  he  sits  and  goes  to  sleep 
quite  quietly  till  they've  been  attended  to  and  his 
turn  comes.  Then  the  sun  shines  in  on  his  hair:  in 
the  evening  it  can  get  right  in.  And  then  I  haven't 
got  the  heart  to  wake  him !" 

The  seamstress  sat  filled  with  desire  to  see  such 
a  wonderful  child,  and  from  her  joyless  existence 
she  felt  a  kind  of  envy  rise  up  against  wealth  so 
vast.  But  stronger  still  shone  admiration  in  her 
pinched  features.  Both  envy  and  admiration 
pleased  the  mother,  and  she  became  quite  con- 
fident. Even  the  old  lady  turned  a  friendly  look 
upon  her,  though  of  this  she  took  no  notice.  She 
talked  on,  of  all  she  could  remember,  from  the 
first  little  feeble  smile  at  something  shining  by  the 
bedside,  the  first  word,  and  then  of  all  the  further 
progress  week  by  week.  These  things  seemed  still 
more  wonderful  and  promising  now  than  when 
they  had  happened.  Every  memory  had  the  sun- 
shine over  it,  and  it  was  as  if  no  other  light  had 
ever  been.  Her  past  and  present  happiness  amazed 
herself.  The  old  lady  yawned  at  these  prolix  com- 


292  PER   HALLSTROM 

monplaces,  but  the  seamstress  could  never  have 
enough  of  them.  Her  innocent  questions  constantly 
gave  rise  to  something  new,  and  she,  too,  was 
equally  amazed,  so  that  the  mother  thought  that 
she  had  never  met  such  agreeable  company.  She 
was  only  troubled  by  her  look,  which  would  not 
always  meet  her  own  direct,  but  peered  from  time 
to  time  at  the  little  creature  on  her  knee. 

"I  thought  he  moved  then,"  she  said  more  than 
once;  "now  you'll  see  that  he'll  wake  up." 

But  the  mother's  grip  only  tightened  and  she 
made  haste  to  answer:  "No,  he  needs  sleep  so 
badly."  Every  time,  her  growing  restlessness  made 
her  more  eager  to  continue,  although  she  felt  fa- 
tigue begin  to  come  upon  her  like  a  dull  and  distant 
headache. 

"Let  it  come,"  she  thought,  in  a  layer  of  her 
brain  behind  that  now  so  busily  engaged  in  finding 
words.  "I'm  so  happy  now,  and  happiness  is  tiring, 
but  it's  easy  to  sleep  afterwards." 

The  speed  of  the  train  also  proved  a  help  to 
her.  It  obeyed  her  will  as  it  rushed  on  among 
shadows  which  never  grew  real;  it  fled  with  her 
from  something,  what  she  did  not  know,  but  some- 
thing that  was  powerless  to  hold  her.  Sometimes 
the  whistle  shrieked  wildly  and  strangely,  almost 
as  though  the  whole  train  were  about  to  hurl  Itself 
down  a  precipice  and  be  smashed  to  atoms.  And 
so  it  might,  for  aught  she  cared,  for  then  she  could 


THE  GARDENER'S  WIFE  293 

sleep  best  of  all.  And  every  time  she  held  her  little 
burden  the  tighter,  overjoyed  to  be  able  to  press 
it  to  her  bosom,  should  the  need  arise.  Meanwhile 
she  never  ceased  to  talk,  now  of  the  past,  now  of 
the  certain  future. 

She  did  not  recognize  herself,  she  could  not  tell 
where  she  found  so  many  words,  she  who  was  so 
shy  and  awkward  and  had  few  ideas  of  any  kind. 
Her  fellow-travelers,  too,  began  to  find  it  strange 
to  listen  to  her.  They  sat  staring  more  and  more, 
and  it  was  not  impossible  that  they  thought  her 
brain  affected.  They  knew  not  that  she  was  living 
in  an  atmosphere  of  poetry,  which  begins  when 
that  of  reality  is  denied.  They  did  not  see  that  it 
was  joy  she  carried  in  her  arms,  joy  secure  from 
life's  changes,  radiant  and  fair,  as  long  as  it  was 
given  her  to  keep  it.  And  the  train  rushed  on,  with 
mother  and  child,  and  all  that  is  contained  between 
the  words. 

THE  END 


LIST  OF  PER  HALLSTROM'S  PRINCIPAL 

WRITINGS 

Poems:  Lyrik  och  faritasier,  1891;  Skogslandet, 
1904. 

Plays:  Grefven  af  Antwerpen,  1899;  Bianca  Ca- 
pello,  1900;  En  veneziansk  komedi,  1901 ;  Ero- 
tikon,  1908;  Tvd  legenddramer,  1908;  Tvd 
sagodravier,  igio;  Karl  den  elfte,  igiS  ;Gustaf 
den  tredje,  1918;  Nessusdrdkten,  1919. 

Short  Stories :  (collections)  Vilsna  fdglar,  1894; 
Piirptir,  1895;  Briljantsmycket,  1896;  Rese- 
boken,  1898;  Thanatos,  1900;  Berdttelser, 
1902;  De  fyra  elementerna,  1906;  Nya  novel- 
ler,  19 1 2. 

Longer  Tales  and  Novels:  En  gammal  histo- 
ria,  iSg ^  ;  Fdren,  iSgS;Ddda  fallet,  ig02;Gus- 
taf  Sparfverts  roinan,  1903;  En  skdlmroman, 
1906. 

Essays,  etc.:  Italienska  href,  1901  ;  Skepnader 
och  tankar,  19 10;  C.  V.  A.  Strandherg,  1912; 
Levande  dikt,  19 14;  Konst  och  Uv,  19 19. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF 

THE  AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN 
FOUNDATION 

Committee  on  Publications 

William  Witherle  Lawrence,  Professor  of  English 
in  Columbia  University,  Chairman. 

John  A.  Gade,  author  of  Charles  the  XII. 

Hanna  Astrup   Larsen,   Editor   The  American-Scan- 
dinavian Revieiv. 

Henry  Goddard  Leach,  author  of  Angevin  Britain  and 
Scandinavia. 

Charles  S.  Peterson,  Publisher,  Chicago. 


SCANDINAVIAN  CLASSICS 

I.   Comedies  by  Holberg:  Jeppe  of  the  Hill,  The 

Political  Tinker,  Erasmus  Mont  anus. 

Translated    by    Oscar    James    Campbell,    Jr.,    and    Frederic 

SCHENCK. 

IL  Poems  by  Tegner:  The  Children  of  the  Lord's 
Supper  and  Frithiof's  Saga. 

Translated  by  Henry  Wadsvvorth  Longfellow  and  W.  Levvery 
Blackley. 

TIL   Poems  and  Songs  by  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. 

Translated    in   the   original    metres,    with    an   Introduction    and 
Notes,  by  Arthur  Hubbell  Palmer. 

IV.  Master  Olof,  by  August  Strindberg. 

An  historical  play,  translated,  with  an  Introduction,  by  Edwin 
Bjorkman. 

V.  The  Prose  Edda,  by  Snorri  Sturluson. 

Translated  from  old  Icelandic,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes, 
by  Arthur  Gilchrist  Brodeur. 


VI.  Modern  Icelandic  Plays,  by  Johan  Sigurjons- 
son:  Eyvind  of  the  Hills  and  The  Hraun  Farm. 

Translated  by  Henninge  Krohn  Schanche. 

VII.  Marie  Grubbe:  A  Lady  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  by  J.  P.  Jacobsen. 

An  historical  romance,  translated,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
Hanna  Astrup  Larsen. 

VIII.  Arnljot  Gelline,  by  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. 
A  Norse  Epic,  translated  by  William  Morton  Payne. 

IX.  Anthology  of  Swedish  Lyrics,  from  1750  to 

1915- 

Selections  from  the  greatest  of   Swedish   lyrics,  translated  by 

Charles  Wharton  Stork. 

X  &  XI.  Gosta  Berling's  Saga,  by  Selma  Lagerlof. 

The  English  translation  of  Lillie  Tudeer,  completed  and  care- 
fully edited. 

XII.  Sara  Videbeck  (Det  gar  an),  and  The 
Chapel,  by  C.  J.  L.  Almquist. 

A  sentimental  journey  with  a  practical  ending,  and  the  tale  of 
a  curate,  translated,  with  an  Introduction,  by  Adolph  Burnett 
Benson. 

XIII.  Niels  Lyhne,  by  J.  P.  Jacobsen. 

A  psychological  novel,  translated,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
Hanna  Astrup  Larsen. 

XIV.  The  Family  at  Gilje:  A  Domestic  Story  of 

the  Forties,  by  Jonas  Lie. 

Translated  by  Samuel  Coffin  Eastman,  with  an  Introduction  by 
Julius  Emil  Olson. 

XV  &  XVI.  The  Charles  Men,  by  Verner  von 
Heidenstam. 

Tales  from  the  exploits  of  Charles  XII,  translated  by  Charles 
Wharton  Stork,  with  an  Introduction  by  Fredrik  Book. 


XVII.  Early  Plays:  Catiline,  The  Warrior's  Bar- 
row, Olaf  Liljekrans,  by  Henrik  Ibsen. 
Translated  by  Anders  Orbeck. 

XVIII.  The  Book  about  Little  Brother:  A  Story 
of  Married  Life,  by  Gustaf  af  Geijerstam. 

Translated,  with  an  Introduction,  by  Edwin  Bjorkman. 

XIX.  J  Book  of  Danish  Verse. 

Selections  from  the  works  of  Danish  Poets  from  Oehlenschlager 
to  Johannes  V.  Jensen.  Translated  in  the  original  metres  by 
S.  Foster  Damon  and  Robert  Silliman  Hillyer.  Selected  and 
annotated  by  Oluf  Friis. 

XX.  Per  Hallstrom:  Selected  Short  Stories. 

A  collection  of  tales  by  Sweden's  great  master  of  the  short  story. 
Translated,  with  an  Introduction,  by  F.  J.  Fielden. 

Price  $2.00  each 

SCANDINAVIAN  MONOGRAPHS 

I.  The  Voyages  of  the  Norsemen  to  America. 

A  complete  exposition,  with  illustrations  and  maps,  by  William 

HOVGAARD. 

Price  $7.50 

II.  Ballad  Criticism  in  Scandinavia  and  Great 
Britain  during  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

A  comparative  study,  by  Siguard  Bernhard  Hustvedt. 

Price  $5.00 

III.  The  King's  Mirror. 

A  famous  treatise,  translated  from  the  Norwegian  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  with  an  Historical  Introduction,  by  Laurence 
Marcellus  Larson. 

Price  $5.00 

IV.  The  Heroic  Legends  of  Denmark. 

Revised  and  expanded  for  this  edition  by  the  author,  the  late 
Axel  Olrik,  in  collaboration  with  the  translator,  Lee  M.  Hol- 
lander. 

Price  $5.00 


V.  Scatidinavian  Art:  A  Survey  of  Swedish  Art, 
by  Carl  G.  Laiirin;  Danish  Art  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century  J  by  Emil  Hannover;  Modern  Norwegian 
Art,  by  Jens  Thiis;  Introduction  by  Christian 
Brinton. 

The  first  comprehensive  discussion  of  the  artistic  production  of 
the  three  Northern  nations ;  in  one  volume  of  660  pages  with  375 
illustrations,  including  frontispiece  in  color. 

Price  $8.00 

THE 

AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN  REVIEW 

An  Illustrated  Magazine,  presenting  the  progress 
of  life  and  literature  in  Sweden,  Denmark,  and 
Norway, 

Price  $3.00  a  year 
For  information  regarding  the  above  publications,  address  the 

Secretary  of  the  American-Scandinavian 

Foundation 
25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 


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